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AUTHOR 


ADAMS,  WILLIAM 


TITLE: 


THE  OLD  MAN'S 
HOME 


PLACE: 


NEW-YORK 


DATE 


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Old  man -3  tioa-a.  I06p.pl. s, 


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f 


"And  I  also  shall  go  hori^c 


HUWLANlj.ic. 

1  ufic  31 


I 


THB 


OLD    MAN'S    HOME. 


BY   THE   REV.   WILLIAM   ADAMS,  M.  A. 

AUTHOR  OF  "  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  CROSS," 
AND  "THB  DISTANT  HILLS,"  ETC. 


With  Enpyings  from  Original  Designs, 


BY    WEIR. 


NEW-YORK  : 

GENERAL  PROT.  EPISCOPAL  S.  S.  UNIOIJ, 

Daniel  Dana,  Jr.,  Agent, 

Depository  20  John  Street 

1848. 


fU 


Entered  according  to  act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1347,  by 
John  W.  Mitchell,  (as  Treasurer  of  the  Oenertil  Protestant 
Episcopal  Sunday  acUuoi  Umon,)  iu  the  OiLce  of  the  Clerk 
of  the  United  States  Diatrict  Court  lor  the  Southern  Dibtrict 
of  New  York. 


ou 

CO 

CO 


T  O 


JOHN    ADAMS, 


Scvicanl  at  3La\D, 


AS    A    MARK   OF    FILIAL   GRATITUDE 


SnU    afff  ctton. 


TH16   VOLUME   IS   INSCRIBED 


BY 


THE    AUTHOR. 


86177 


FOR    THEY 
THAT    SAY    SUCH   THINGS 
DECLARE     PLAINLY 
THAT    THEY    SEEK    A    COUNTRY. 
Heb.  xi,  U. 


^t  ®llr  man's  ^omt. 


CHAPTER  I. 


£ach  in  his  hidden  sphere  of  joy  or  woe, 
Our  hermit  spirits  dwell  and  range  apart; 

Our  eyes  see  all  around  in  gloom  or  glow- 
Hues  of  their  own.  fresh  borrow'd  from  the  heart. 

CHRISTIAN  YEAR. 

There  is  a  scene  on  the  coast  of  the 
Isle  of  Wight  with  which  I  have  long 
since  become  familiar,  but  which  never 
fails  to  exercise  a  soothing  influence  on 
my  mind.  It  is  at  the  eastern  extre- 
mity of  the  landslip.  Large  portions 
of  the  cliff  have  fallen  away,  and  formed 
a  dell  so  broken  and  irregular,  that  the 
ground  has  the  appearance  of  having  at 


6  THE  OLD  MAN  S  HOME. 

one  time  been  agitated  by  an  earthquake. 
But  Nature  has  only  suffered  the  con- 
vulsion   to    take    place,    in    order   that 
afterwards  she  might  bestow  her  gifts 
upon  this   favoured    spot  with  a  more 
unsparing   hand.  '  The  wild    and   pic- 
turesque character  of  the  landscape  is 
now  almost  lost  sight  of  in  its  richness 
and  repose.     The  new  soil  is  protected 
from  the  storms  of  winter  by  the  cliff 
from  which  it  has  fallen,  and,  sloping 
towards  the  south,  is  open  to  the   full 
warmth  and  radiance  of  the   sun.     In 
consequence  of  this,  the  landslip  has 
as  it  were,  a  climate  of  its  own ;  and 
often  when  the  more  exposed  parts  of 
the  country  still  look  dreary  and  de- 
solate,   is    in    the     enjoyment    of    the 
blessings    of   an   early    spring.      Such 
was  the  season  at  which  I  first  visited  it. 
The  grey  fragments  of  rock  which  lay 
scattered  on  the  ground  are  almost  hid 
by  the   luxuriance  of  the   underwood, 


THE  OLD  man's  HOME.  7 

and  countless  wild  flowers  were  grow- 
ing beneath  their  shade.  Below,  the 
eye  rested  upon  a  little  bay,  formed  by 
the  gradual  advance  of  the  sea;  and 
all  was  so  calm  and  peaceful,  that  as  I 
watched  the  gentle  undulation  of  the 
waters,  I  could  fancy  them  to  be 
moving  to  and  fro  with  a  stealthy  step, 
lest  they  should  disturb  the  tranquillity 
of  the  scene. 

I  have  said  that  a  visit  to  this  fa- 
voured spot  never  fails  with  me  to  have 
a  soothing  influence.  I  feel  as  though 
I  were  treading  on  enchanted  ground, 
and  the  whole  scene  were  allegorical; 
for  it  reminds  me  that,  in  like  manner, 
the  wreck  of  all  our  earthly  hopes  and 
plans  may  but  lay  open  our  hearts  to 
the  influence  of  a  warmer  sunshine,  and 
enrich  them  with  flowers  w^hich  the 
storms  of  life  have  no  longer  power  to 
destroy.  But  I  cannot  now  tell  whether 
these  thoughts  have  their  origin  in  the 


8 


THE  OLD  man's  HOME. 


scene    itself,   or    in    an    incident    that 
occurred  the  first  time  I  visited  it. 

It  was  on  the  evening  of  the  18th  of 
April,  1843.     I  had  been  long  gazing 
upon  it,  and  had  imagined  that  I  was 
alone,  when  my  attention  was  arrested 
by  a  sigh  from  some  one  near  me.     I 
turned  round,  and  saw  a  venerable  old 
man   seated   upon   a   fragment   of   the 
fallen   cliff,  beneath  which    the  violets 
were  very  thickly  clustering.     His  hair 
was  white  as  silver ;  his  face  deeply  fur- 
rowed, and  yet  pervaded  by  a  general 
expression  of  childish  simplicity,  which 
formed  a  strong   contrast  to  the  lines 
which  must  have  been  indented  upon  it 
by  care  and  suffering,  no  less  than  the 
lapse   of  years.     I   cannot   recall  the 
words  of  the  chance  observation  which 
I  addressed  to  him ;  but  it  related  to  the 
lateness  and  inclemency  of  the  season, 
and  I  was  at  once  struck  by  the  singu- 
larity of  his  reply.  ''Yes,  yes,"  he  said, 


THE  OLD  man's  HOME.  9 

musingly,  "the  winter  has  indeed  been 
very  long  and  dreary;  and  yet  it  has 
been  gladdened,  from  time  to  time,  by 
glimpses  of  the  coming  spring." 

I  now  observed  him  more  closely. 
There  was  a  strangeness  in  his  dress 
which  first  excited  my  suspicion,  and  I 
fancied  that  I  could  detect  a  restless- 
ness in  his  light  blue  eye  which  spoke 
of  a  mind  that  had  gone  astray.  "  Old 
man,"  I  said,  "you  seem  tired;  have 
you  come  from  far  ?" 

"Ah,  woe  is  me,"  he  replied,  in  the 
same  melancholy  tone  as  before;  "I 
have  indeed  travelled  a  long  and  solitary 
journey ;  and  at  times  I  am  weary,  very 
weary ;  but  my  resting-place  now  must 
be  near  at  hand." 

"And  whither,  then,"  I  asked,  "are 
you  going?" 

"  Home,  sir,  home,"  he  replied ; 
and  while  his  voice  lost  its  sadness, 
his    face    seemed   to   brighten  and    his 


10 


THE   OLD  MAN  S  HOME. 


eye  grow  steady  at  the  thought;  "T 
hope  and  believe  that  I  am  going 
home." 

I  now  imagined  that  I  had  judged 
him  hastily,  and  that  the  answers  which 
I  had  ascribed  to  a  wandering  intellect 
proceeded  in  truth  from  depth  of  reli- 
gious feeling.  In  order  to  ascertain 
this,  I  asked:  "Have  you  been  long 
a  traveller?" 

"  Four  score  and  thirteen  years,"  he 
replied ;  and  observing  my  look  of 
assumed  wonder,  he  repeated  a  second 
time,  more  slowly  and  sadly  than  before, 
"  Four  score  and  thirteen  years." 

"The  home,"  I  said,  "must  be  very 
far  off  that  requires  so  long  a  journey." 
"Nay,  nay,  kind  sir,  do  not  speak 
thus,"  he  answered:  "our  home  is  never 
far  off;  and  I  might  perhaps  have  arrived 
at  it  years  and  years  ago.  But  often 
(luring  the  early  spring  I  stopped  to 
gather  the  flowers  that  grew  beneath  my 


THE   OLD  man's  HOME. 


11 


feet;  and  once  I  laid  me  down  and  fell 
asleep  upon  the  way.  And  so  more  than 
four  score  and  thirteen  years  have  been 
wanted  to  bring  me  to  the  home  which 
many  reach  in  a  few  days.  Alas!  all 
whom  I  love  most  dearly  have  long 
since  passed  me  on  the  road,  and  I  am 
now  left  to  finish  my  journey  alone." 

During  this  reply,  I  had  become  alto- 
gether ashamed  of  my  former  suspicion, 
and  I  now  looked  into  the  old  man's 
face  with  a  feeling   of  reverence    and 
love.     The    features  were    unchanged; 
but  instead  of  the  childish  expression 
which  I  had  before  observed,  I  believed 
them  to  be  brightened  with  the  heaven- 
liness  of  the   second  childhood,  while 
the  restlessness  of  the  light  blue  eye 
only  spoke   to   me   of   an   imagination 
which  loved  to  wander  amid  the  treas- 
ures of  the  unseen  world.     I  purposely, 
however,    continued    the    conversation 
under  the   same    metaphor   as   before. 


"\ 


12 


-'. 


THE   OLD  MAN  S  HOME 


'*You   have   not,  then,"  I  said,  "been 
always  a  sohtary  traveller?" 

"Ah,  no,"  he    replied:    "for   a   few 
years  a  dear  wife  was  walking  step  by 
step  at  my  side;  and  there  were  little 
children,  too,  who  were  just  beginning 
to  follow  us.    And  I  was  so  happy  then, 
that  I   sometimes   forgot  we  were  but 
travellers,  and  fancied  that  I  had  found 
a  home.     But  my  wife,  sir,  never  forgot 
it.     She  would  again  and  again  remind 
me  that  *we  must  so  live  together  in 
this  life,  that  in  the  world  to  come  we 
mifjht  have  Hfe  everlasting.'     They  are 
words  that  I  scarcely  regarded  at  the 
time,  but  I  love  to  repeat  them  now. 
They  speak  to  me  of  meeting  her  again 
at  the  end  of  our  journey." 

"And  have  all  your  children  left 
you  ?"  I  asked. 

"All,  all,"  he  replied.  "My  wife 
took  them  with  her  when  she  went 
away.      She     stayed    with    me,     sir, 


THE  OLD    man's  HOME. 


13 


but    six    years,   and    left    me    on  the 
very    day    on    which    she    came.      It 
seems  strange  now  that  I  could  have 
lived  with  them  day  after  day  without 
a  thought  that  they  were  so  near  their 
journey's   end,  while   I   should   travel 
onward  so  many  winters  alone.     It  is 
now  sixty  years    since   they  all  went 
home,  and  have  been  waiting  for  me 
there.     But,  sir,  I  often  think  that  the 
time,  which  has   seemed   so  long  and 
dreary  to  me,  has  passed  away  like  a 
few  short  hours  to  them." 

"And  are  you  sure,  then,"  I  said, 
"that  they  are  all  gone  home?"  It  was 
a  thoughtless  question,  and  I  repented 
the  words  almost  before  they  were 
spoken.  The  tears  rose  quickly  in  the 
old  man's  eyes,  and  his  voice  trembled 
with  emotion,  as  he  replied:  "Oh! 
sir,  do  not  bid  me  doubt  it.  Surely, 
every  one  of  them  is  gone  home ;  one, 
at  least,  of  the  number  is  undoubtedly 


I 


14 


THE  OLD  man's  HOME. 


there ;  and  they  all  went  away  together, 
as  though  they  were  travelling  to  the 
same  place;  besides,  sir,  my  wife  was 
constantly  speaking  to  them  of  their 
home ;  and  would  not  their  journey  as 
well  as  my  own  have  been  prolonged, 
if  their  home  had  not  been  ready  for 
them?  And  when  I  think  of  them,  I 
always  think  of  home ;  am  I  not,  then, 
right  in  believing  that  all  of  them  are 

there?" 

There  were  allusions  in  this  answer 

which  I  did  not  at  the  time  understand ; 

but  the  old  man's  grief  was  too  sacred 

for  me  to  intrude  further  upon  it.    I  felt, 

also,  that  any  words  of  my  own  would 

be    too    feeble   to   calm    the    agitation 

which  my  thoughtless  observation  had 

caused.     I  merely  repeated  a  passage 

from  holy  Scripture,  in  reply,  "Blessed 

are  the  dead  that  die  in  the  Lord,  even 

so  saith  the  Spirit,  for  they  rest  from 

their  labours." 


THE  OLD  man's  HOME. 


15 


The  old  man's  face  again  brightened, 
and  as  he  wiped  away  the  tears,  he 
added,  "And  'Blessed,'  also,  'are  they 
that  mourn,  for  they  shall  be  comforted.' 
There  is  not  only  a  blessing  for  those 
who  have  been  taken  to  their  rest,  but 
there  is  the  image  of  that  blessing  to 
cheer  the  old  man  who  is  left  to  pursue 
his  solitary  journey." 

At  this  moment,  the  sun,  which  had 
been  obscured  by  a  passing  cloud,  sud- 
denly shone  forth,  and  its  rays  were 
reflected  by  a  path  of  gold  in  the  silent 
waters.     The   old   man   pointed    to   it 
with  a  quiet  smile ;  the  change  was  in 
such  harmony  with  his  own  thoughts, 
that  I  do  not  wonder  at  the  metaphor 
it   suggested   to   him.      "There,"   said 
he,  "  is  the  blessing  of  the  mourner  ! 
See!    how   it   shines    down    from   the 
heaven    above,     and     gilds    with    its 
radiance  the  dreary  sea  of  life." 
"True,"  I  replied;  "and  the  sea  of 


f 


16 


THE   OLD  MAN  S  HOME. 


life  would  be  no  longer  dreary,  if  it 
were  not  for  the  passing  clouds  which 
at  times  keep  back  from  it  the  light 
of  Heaven."  His  immediate  answer 
to  this  observation  proved  the  image 
which  he  had  employed,  to  be  one  long 
familiar  to  his  own  mind.  "  There 
are  indeed  clouds,"  he  said,  "but  they 
are  never  in  Heaven;  they  hover  very 
near  the  earth ;  and  it  is  only  because 
our  sight  is  so  dim  and  indistinct  that 
they  seem  to  be  in  the  sky." 

A  silence  of  some  minutes  followed 
this  remark.  I  was,  in  truth,  anxious 
that  the  old  man  should  pursue  the 
metaphor  farther.  But  the  gleam  of 
light  passed  away  as  the  sun  sunk 
behind  the  western  hills.  His  feelings 
appeared  to  undergo  a  corresponding 
change,  and  he  exclaimed,  hastily, 
"  The  day  is  fast  drawing  to  a  close ; 
and  the  night  must  be  near  at  hand: 
I  must  hasten  onward  on  my  journey. 


[ 


THE   OLD   MAN  S  HOME, 


17 


Come,  kind  sir,  and  I  will  show  you 
where  my  friends  are  waiting  for  me." 

I  was  wondering  whether  he  now 
spoke  metaphorically  or  not,  when  my 
thoudits  were  suddenly  turned  into  a 
new  channel,  and  my  former  painful 
suspicions  returned.  As  the  old  man 
leant  upon  his  staff,  his  wrists  became 
exposed  to  view,  and  I  saw  that  they 
were  marked  with  deep  blue  lines, 
which  could  only  have  been  caused  by 
the  galling  of  a  chain  in  former  years. 

The  poor  wanderer  observed  the 
look  1  gave  them.  A  sudden  flush  of 
shame  overspread  his  countenance,  and 
he  hurriedly  drew  down  his  garment  to 
conceal  them.  It  was,  however,  but  a 
momentary  impulse ;  he  again  exposed 
them  to  my  view,  and  himself  gazed 
sadly  upon  them,  as  he  said,  "  Why 
should  I  try  to  hide  them,  when  they 
are  left  there  to  reniind  me  constantly 
of  my  true    condition?     For   in   times 


2* 


18 


THE   OLD  MAN  S  HOME. 


past  I  have  borne  the  pressure  of  more 
wearing  bonds  than  those;  and  though 
I  have  been  released  from  them  now, 
no  one  can  tell  how  dark  and  deep  is 
the  stain  that  they  have  left  upon  the 
soul."  Something  more  he  added,  but 
his  eye  was  turned  meekly  towards 
Heaven,  and  it  was  only  from  the 
movement  of  his  Hps  that  I  fancied 
I  could  trace  the  words  of  the  prayer, 
''  Though  we  be  tied  and  bound  with 
the  chain  of  our  sins,  yet  let  the  piti- 
fulness  of  Thy  great  mercy  loose  us." 

He  now  began  to  move  slowly  for- 
ward. The  ground  was  rough  and 
uneven,  and  his  step  so  very  feeble, 
that  1  expected  every  instant  to  see 
him  fall.  He  struck  his  foot  against 
a  stone,  and  I  sprang  forward  to  his 
assistance.  "  Thank  you,  kind  sir,"  he 
said,  in  his  quiet  way;  "but  do  not 
fear  for  me  ;  my  own  frail  limbs  could 
not  support  me   for  an  instant:    but  I 


f 


THE   OLD  man's  HOME. 


19 


have  a  staff  on  which  I  lean;  and 
though  I  may  stumble  at  times,  I  can- 
not fall." 

Asain  I  was  in  doubt  whether  to 
interpret  his  words  literally  or  not; 
but  my  belief  was  that  the  old  man 
almost  unconsciously  used  the  lan- 
guage of  allegory.  Long  habit  had 
so  taught  him  to  blend  together  tlie 
seen  and  the  unseen  world,  that  he 
could  not  separate  them.  Life  was 
to  him  a  mirror,  and  in  the  passing 
objects  of  sight  and  sense,  he  never 
failed  to  recognise  the  images  of  spir- 
itual things. 


CHAPTER   II. 

So  wumlerers,  ever  fond  and  true, 
Look  homeward  through  the  eveuing  aky, 

Without  a  streak  of  heaven's  soft  blue, 
To  aid  alfection'B  dreaming  eye. 

CHRISTIAN  YEAR. 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  last  chapter  1 
gave  the  opinion  that  I  formed  of  the 
old  man  from  the  brief  conversation  I 
myself  had  with  him.  The  following 
incident  cast,  as  it  were,  a  shadow  upon 
it,  and  robbed  it  of  its  brightness,  but 
did  not  really  alter  it.  My  intercourse 
with  him  was  brought  to  a  sudden  and 
painful  conclusion.  It  was  at  my  per- 
suasion that  he  crossed  a  stile  which 
separated  the  wild  scenery  of  the  land- 
slip from  tlie  public  road  leading  to  the 


THE   OLD   man's  HOME. 


21 


„-J 


little    village    of  B .     I   thought   it 

would  be  easier  for  him  to  walk  along 
the  more  beaten  track.  He  had  yielded 
with  apparent  reluctance  to  my  request. 
His  unwillingness  appeared  to  proceed 
from  instinct  rather  than  reason.  Jt 
may  in  part  have  arisen  from  a  kind  of 
natural  sympathy  which  attracted  him 
to  that  wild  luxuriant  spot ;  in  part  from 
an  unconscious  dread  of  the  danger  to 
which  he  actually  became  exposed. 
He  simply  said,  "  This  smooth  way 
was  not  made  for  the  like  of  me,  kind 
sir;  but  under  your  protection  I  will 
venture  along  it." 

Alas!  I  little  thought  of  the  kind  of 
protection  he  required.  We  had  ad- 
vanced but  a  few  hundred  yards,  and 
had  just  reached  the  summit  of  the  hill 
which  commanded  the  first  view  of  the 
village  church.  The  old  man  had 
paused  for  a  little  w^hile,  and  appeared 
to  gaze   upon   it  with  a  feeling  of  the 


THE   OLD  MAN  S  HOME. 


most  intense  interest;  I  was  afraid,  even 
by  a  passing  question,  to  interrupt  the 
quiet  current  of  his  thoughts ;  when 
the  silence  was  suddenly  broken  by  the 
creaking  of  a  cart-wheel,  which  grated 
harshly  on  my  ear ;  and  almost  before 
I  could  look  round,  I  heard  a  voice  of 
rude  triumph  behind  me,  crying  out, 
*'  There  he  is — there  he  is — there  goes 
the  old  boy!  Stop  him,  stop  him,  sir' 
he  is  mad."  * 

I  have  no  heart  to  describe  the  scene 
that  followed:  the  poor  wanderer  shuf- 
fled forward,  with  a  nervous,  hurried 
step;  but  in  a  few  seconds  the  cart 
was  at  his  side ;  the  driver  immediately 
jumped  out,  and,  seizing  him  by  the 
collar,  with  many  a  rude  word  and 
coarse  jest,  tried  to  force  him  to  enter 
it.  For  a  moment,  surprise  and  indig- 
nation deprived  me  of  speech,  for  I  had 
began  to  regard  the  old  man  with  such 
a  feeling  of  reverent  love,  that  it  almost 


I 


THE   OLD   man's  HOME. 


23 


seemed  to  me  like  a  profanation  of  holy 
ground.    When,  however,  he  turned  his 
eyes   towards    me,  with   an   imploring 
look,  I  recovered  myself  sufficiently  to 
demand    by  .what    authority    he   dared 
thus  molest  an  inoffensive  traveller  on 
his  journey.      In   my    inmost   heart,   I 
dreaded  the  answer  I  should  probably 
receive;    neither    was    my    foreboding 
wrong;  the  man  laughed  rudely  as  he 
replied,  "  He  has  been  mad,  quite  mad, 
for  more  than  fifty  years;   he  escaped 
this  morning  from  the  Asylum,  and  one 
•  of  the   keepers  has   been  with  me   all 
day  long  scouring  the  country  in  search 

of  him." 

It  was  in  vain  that  I  sought  a  pretext 
for  disbelieving  the  truth  of  the  story. 
I  could  not  help  feeling  that  it  did  but 
confirm  a  suspicion  which,  in  spite  of 
myself,  had  kept  crossing  my  own 
mind;  for  the  bright  colouring  which 
was  shed  by  faith  on  the  thoughts  and 


w 


24 


THE   OLD   man's  HOME. 


words  of  the  old  man  was  not  alone  a 
sufficient  evidence  that  they  were  under 
the  guidance  of  reason.     Yet,   of  one 
thing,  at  least,  I  felt  sure,  that,  what- 
ever were  the  state  of  his  intellect,  it 
could  be  no  imaginary  cause  that  now 
so  strongly  moved  him.     My  heart  bled 
for  him,  as  I  hstened  to   the  pathetic 
earnestness  with  which  he  implored  the 
protection  that  I  was  unable  to  afford. 
He    even    forgot   to    use    tlie    language 
of  metaphor  in  the  agony  of  his  grief. 
"Indeed,  indeed,  sir,"  he  said,  "they 
call  me  mad,  but  do  not  believe  them, 
for  I  am  not  mad  now.     There,  there," 
he  added,  pointing  towards  the  church, 
"my  wife  and  children  are  waiting  for 
me.     It  was  on  this  very  day  that  they 
went    away,   and    we    have    now  been 
parted    sixty  years.     I   have   travelled 
very  far  to  join  them  once  again  before 
I  die.     Oh,  have  pity  upon  me !     I  only 
ask  for  one  little  half  hour,  that  I  may 


THE   OLD  man's  HOME. 


25 


go   on   in    peace    to    the    end   of   my 

journey." 

Large  drops  of  moisture  trembled  on 
his  forehead  as  he  uttered  these  words; 
his  whole  face  became  convulsed  with 
emotion,  and  he  clung  with  such  in- 
tensity to  my  garment,  that  his  rude 
assailant  tried  in  vain  to  unloose  his 
grasp.  The  man  himself  was  evidently 
frightened  by  the  agitation  which  his 
own  violence  had  caused,  and  appeared 
doubtful  how  to  proceed,  when  tlie 
scene  was  fortunately  interrupted  by 
the  arrival  of  his  companion. 

He  was  the  keeper  who  had  been 
sent  from  the  Asylum  with  the  cart,  but 
had  left  it  in  order  to  search  the  path- 
way which  led  through  the  landslip. 
His  look  and  manner  afforded  a  striking 
contrast  to  those  of  the  first  comer, 
who  proved  to  be  merely  the  owner 
of  the  vehicle,  which  had  been  hired 
for  the  occasion.      Immediately  on  his 


26 


THE   OLD  MAN  S  HOME. 


arrival,  he  reprimanded  him  for  his 
rude  treatment  of  the  old  man,  and 
insisted  on  his  returning  to  the  cart, 
and  desisting  from  all  farther  inter- 
ference. My  hopes  were  greatly  raised 
by  this,  and  I  flattered  myself  that  1 
should  now  have  little  difficulty  in 
obtaining  for  the  poor  wanderer  the 
indulgence  which  he  sought.  But  I 
soon  found  my  mistake ;  and,  under 
the  irritated  feelings  of  the  moment, 
almost  preferred  the  rude  conduct  of 
the  first  comer  to  the  quiet  determina- 
tion with  which  his  companion  listened 
to  my  request. 

He  merely  smiled  at  the  account  I 
gave  of  my  own  interview  with  the 
old  man ;  and  when  I  suggested  that 
it  contained  no  evidence  of  insanity, 
shook  his  head,  and  replied,  "You  do 
not  know  poor  Robin.  His  notions 
about  home  are  the  peculiar  feature 
of  his  madness ;  but  you  are  not  the 


y 


1 


THE  OLD  man's  HOME. 


27 


first  person  that  has  been  deceived  by 

them." 

He  spoke  in  a  low  tone,  as  though  he 
were  anxious  not  to  be  overheard.  But 
the  precaution  seemed  unnecessary;  for, 
though  the  old  man  had  mechanically 
retained  his  grasp  on  my  garments,  he 
was  now  looking  eagerly  towards  the 
village  church,  and  I  could  see,  from 
the  expression  of  his  countenance,  that 
his  thoughts  had  passed  away  from  the 
scene  around  him. 

When  I  found  my  arguments  of  no 
avail,  I  changed  my  ground,  and  be- 
sought as  a  favour  that  he  would  make 
the  trial  of  letting  the  old  man  proceed 
to  the  end  of  his  journey,  and  trust  to 
his  promise  to  return  quietly  from 
thence.  "  Sir,"  he  replied,  in  a  louder 
voice,  "I  should  have  no  more  hesita- 
tion in  trusting  the  word  of  poor  Robin 
than  your  own.  He  never  deceived 
me ;  and,  under  ordinary  circumstances, 


n 


28 


r\ 


THE   OLD  MAN  S  HOME. 


I  would  at  once  grant  his  request;  but 
the  hour  is  late,  and,  as  it  is,  the  night 
will  close    in    upon  us  before   we   can 

get  back  to  the  town  of  N .     The 

responsibility  will  rest  upon  me,  if 
mischief  should  arise  from  any  addi- 
tional delay.  I  am  sure  Robin  himself 
would  not  desire  it."  As  he  said  this, 
he  turned  towards  the  old  man,  but  his 
countenance  was  unchanged,  his  eye 
still  fixed  upon  the  church,  and  he 
either  had  not  heard  the  words  at  all, 
or  they  had  failed  to  convey  any  dis- 
tinct impression  to  his  mind. 

After  a  pause,  I  again  renewed  my 
entreaties,  urging  that  it  would  at  least 
be  a  better  plan  than  having  recourse 
to  violence,  which  must  eventually  pro- 
duce a  far  more  serious  delay.  "  Of 
course,"  said  the  attendant,  "anythin^r 
is  better  than  having  recourse  to  vio- 
lence." "Then,"  said  I,  "you  accede 
to  my  request?"     "Only,"  replied  he, 


THE   OLD  MAN  S  HOME. 


29 


with  a  provoking   smile,  "in  case  all 
other    methods   fail;    but  as  the  delay 
would  be   a  real  inconvenience  to  us, 
you    must   permit   me  first  to  try  my 
powers    of    persuasion.      Let   me    now 
beg  of  you,  whatever  surprise  you  may 
feel,  to  be    careful    to    express    none." 
He  again  lowered  his  voice  as  he  said 
these  words,  and,  in  spite  of  the  dislike 
inspired  by  the   self-confidence  of  his 
manner,  and  of  other  stronger  emotions, 
my  curiosity  was  excited  to  know  how 
he  would  proceed.     He  placed  himself 
opposite  to  the  old  man,  so  as  to  inter- 
cept his  view  of  the  village,  and  then, 
.having  fixed  his  eye  calmly  and  sted- 
fastly  upon  him,  with  an  appearance  of 
real  interest,  thus  soothingly  addressed 
liim: — "I  would  gladly  go  on  with  you, 
Robin ;  but  am  sure  you  are  under  some 
mistake.     Your  wife  and  children  can- 
not be  in  yonder  village, — they  are  not 
there,  they  are  at  home.     Come  quietly 


30 


THE   OLD  MAN  S  HOME. 


with  me  now,  and  perhaps  this  evening 
you  may  go  home  also." 

These  simple  words  touched  some 
hidden  chord  in  the  old  man's  heart, 
and  their  effect  was  almost  magical. 
All  other  feelings  passed  away,  and  I 
forgot  the  presence  of  his  companions, 
as  I  watched  the  change  which  they 
produced.  His  features  became  com- 
posed, his  hand  relaxed  its  hold,  and 
his  voice  resumed  its  former  tranquil 
tone,  as  he  slowly  repeated :  "  They 
are  not  there,  they  are  at  home ;  they 
are  not  there,  they  are  at  home.  True, 
very  true,  they  are  not  there,  they  are 
at  home." 

Presently  he  raised  his  eyes  to  Hea- 
ven, and  the  attendants,  no  less  than 
myself,  were  overawed  by  the  solemnity 
of  his  manner.  There  was  a  silence  of 
a  few  seconds,  during  which  he  seemed 
to  listen  intently;  and  then,  as  though 
he  had  heard  some  echo  from  above, 


THE  OLD  man's  HOME. 


31 


which   confirmed    the    hope    that   had 
been   held  out  to   him,  he  confidently 
added:  "And  I  also  shall  go  home, — 
and  this  very  evening  I  shall  be  there." 
While  I  was  still  pondering  on  these 
words,  the    old   man   had   of  his   own 
accord   quietly    placed   himself  in    the 
cart,  and   his    companions    had    seated 
themselves   by   his    side.     They    were 
on  the  point  of  driving  off  before  the 
thought  occurred  to  me  of  offering  him 
money.      I    drew    out    my   purse,   half 
expecting  him  to  refuse  the  proffered 
gift;  and  it  was  with  a  strong  feeling 
of  disappointment  that  I  observed  the 
look  of  satisfaction,   almost  amounting 
to  eagerness,  with  which  he  took  the 
silver   from   my   hand.     I   said   within 
myself,  "Can  it  be,  then,  that  the  taint 
of  covetousness   is   to   be    found   in   a 
mind  from  which  every  earthly  affec- 
tion   seems    so   entirely   to   have   been 
withdrawn?"     But  I  wronged  him  by 


I 


32 


THE  OLD  MAN  S  HOME. 


the  thought.  The  money  was  immedi- 
ately taken  from  him,  and  he  resigned 
it  to  another  no  less  gladly  than  he  had 
received  it  from  me.  **  It  will  not  do," 
said  the  keeper,  "to  let  him  have  it 
himself:  he  will  merely  give  it  away 
to  the  first  beggar  that  he  meets.  He 
has  not  the  slightest  notion  of  the  real 
value  of  money.  It  shall  be  laid  out 
for  his  benefit;  and  till  then  it  will  be 
safe  in  my  keeping." 

My  countenance  may  have  expressed 
dissatisfaction  at  the  change,  though,  in 
truth,  I  had  no  objection  to  make  to  it. 
But  the  old  man  himself  interrupted  me 
before  I  could  reply,  and  said,  "  Do  not 
be  afraid,  kind  sir,  whether  it  remain 
with  me  or  him ;  your  treasure  will  be 
safe,  quite  safe ;  it  matters  not  now 
whether  it  remain  with  me  or  him ;" 
and  then  added,  in  a  more  solemn  tone, 
"safe  *  where  neither  rust  nor  moth  doth 
corrupt,  and  where  thieves  do  not  break 


THE   OLD  MAN  S  HOME. 


33 


through  and  steal.'  I  will  take  it  home 
with  me ;  and  when  you  also  go  home, 
you  will  find  it  there."  And  I  now 
understood  how  it  was  for  mv  sake  that 
he  had  so  gladly  welcomed  the  gift; 
and  I  thought,  too,  that  if  in  truth  money 
had  a  real  value  at  all,  it  must  be  the 
one  which  was  assigned  to  it  by  him. 

The  men  were  in  a  hurry  to  depart, 
and  I  was  now  forced  to  bid  adieu  to 
the  old  man.  He  appeared  so  sorry  to 
leave  me,  that  I  promised  on  the  mor- 
row to  come  and  see  him.  I  did  not 
like  to  use  the  word  Asylum,  so  I  said 
at  his  dwelling-place.  The  expression 
at  once  caught  his  ear,  and  re-awakened 
the  train  of  thought  which  my  gift  had 
interrupted  for  a  time. 

"Not  in  my  dwelling-place,"  he  said, 
"  for  to-morrow  I  shall  not  be  there.  If 
you  see  me  again,  kind  stranger,  it  must 
be  at  home.  May  God  bless  you,  and 
guide  you  on  3^our  way."    The  cart  was 


I 


34 


THE   OLD  MAX  S  HOME. 


already  in  motion,  but  he  looked  back 
once  more,  and  waved  his  hand  as  he 
said,  "Good  bye,  sir.  Remember  that 
we  all  are  going  home  ! " 

They  were  the  last  words  I  heard 
him  speak,  and  it  is  perhaps  from  that 
cause  that  they  made  so  strong  an  im- 
pression on  my  mind  ;  for  often  since 
then,  when  I  have  been  tempted  to 
wander  from  the  right  path,  or  murmur 
as  I  walked  along  it,  I  have  thought 
upon  the  old  man's  parting  warning, 
and  asked  myself  the  question,  "  Am 
I  not  going  home?" 


\ 


CHAPTER   III. 

Two  worlds  are  ouffl:  'tis  only  Sin 

Forbids  us  to  di'scry 
The  mystic  heaven  and  earth  witliin, 

Plain  as  the  sea  and  sky. 

CHRISTIAN   YEAR. 

Very  early  on  the  following  morning 
I    proceeded    on    foot   to    the    town    of 

N .     The  scenery  through  which  I 

passed  was  rich  and  beautiful,  but  it 
was  lost  upon  me  at  the  time ;  for  there 
were  busy  thoughts  within  which  would 
not  suffer  my  eye  to  rest  on  any  external 
object.  I  was  on  my  way  to  visit  the 
old  man,  and  bad  a  presentiment,  almost 
amounting  to  conviction,  that  I  should 
not  find  him  alive.  The  words,  "  I  also 
shall  go  home,  and  this  very  evening 


36 


THE   OLD  MAN  S  HOME. 


f     ■ 


I  shall  be  there,"  in  spite  of  myself, 
kept  recurring  to  my  mind.  It  was  to 
no  purpose  that  I  endeavoured  to  set 
them  aside,  as  part  of  the  wanderings 
of  a  disordered  intellect :  there  was  a 
solemnity  in  the  look  and  manner  of  the 
poor  wanderer,  wnich  gave  a  reality 
to  their  meaning ;  and  I  believed  the 
shadow  of  the  future  to  have  been  rest- 
ing on  his  spirit  at  the  time  he  spoke 
them. 

These  fears  gradually  increased  as 
I  approached  the  Asylum.  At  the 
entrance,  there  stood  a  little  girl,  weep- 
ing: as  though  her  heart  would  break. 
A  woman,  who  appeared  to  be  her 
mother,  was  trying  in  vain  to  comfort 
her.  Her  only  reply  to  every  caress, 
was  a  fresh  burst  of  sobs  and  tears. 
The  scene  was  so  in  harmony  with  my 
own  thoughts,  that  the  very  instant  I 
saw  her,  I  guessed  the  cause  of  her  sor- 
row.     Nor  was  my  conjecture  wrong : 


THE   OLD  MAN  S  HOME. 


37 


the  child  had  dearly  loved  the  old  man, 
and  wept  because  he  was  no  more. 

The  father  of  this  girl  was  the  super- 
intendent of  the  Asylum.  He  also  was 
standing  by,  and  offered  to  accompany 
me  through  the  building.  On  the  way, 
he  proved  very  willing  to  gratify  my 
curiosity  concerning  the  stranger  who 
had  excited  in  me  so  singular  an  interest. 
I  soon  found  him  to  be  an  intelligent, 
kind-hearted  man,  who  had  entered  in- 
stinctively into  the  thoughts  and  wishes 
of  poor  Robin,  and  yet  had  failed  to 
appreciate  what  I  may  call  the  religion 
of  his  character.  His  daily  famiharity 
with  the  varied  forms  of  insanity,  may 
in  part  have  been  the  cause.  He  had 
at  once  regarded  him  as  a  patient  la- 
bouring under  a  peculiar  kind  of  mental 
delusion,  without  looking  beyond.  In 
consequence  of  this,  there  was  much  in 
our  conversation  which  grated  harshly 
on  my  own  feelings.     I  loved  better  to 


38 


THE   OLD  MAN  S  HOME. 


think  of  the  old  man  as  I  had  first  seen 
him,   sitting    in    the    midst  of  the  pic- 
turesque scenery  of  the  landslip,  than 
confined    within    the    gloomy    walls    of 
a   pauper    Asylum.     The    close    rooms 
through    which    we    passed,    the    dull 
tones  of  the  superintendent's  voice,  his 
conviction  of  poor  Robin's  insanity,  and 
even    the    compassionate    interest    with 
which  he  spoke  of  him,  all  interfered 
with  the  brightness  of  the  image  which 
my  own  mind  had   previously  formed. 
It  would  have  been  more   in   harmony 
with  my  thoughts,  to  have  heard  from 
the  child  who  was  weeping  for  him,  the 
simple  narrative  of  the  old  man's  life: 
but,  perhaps,  the  contrast  in  the  colour- 
ing of  the   picture  only  brings  out  the 
more  strongly  its  intrinsic  beauty  ;  and, 
for  this  reason,  I  will  still  endeavour  to 
trace  it  as  it  was  first  presented  to  my 
own  view. 

The    outhne    is    soon    drawn.     Poor 


, 


-'. 


THE   OLD  MAN  S  HOME. 


39 


Robin  had,  for  more  than  half  a  century, 
been  an  inmate  of  the  Asylum.  No  one 
could  tell  from  whence  he  had  been 
brought  there,  or  say  anything  with 
certainty  of  his  previous  history.  It 
was,  however,  generally  believed  that 
he  had  known  better  days,  but  that 
some  very  heavy  affliction  had  brought 
on  mental  derangement ;  and  that,  in 
consequence  of  this,  his  property  had 
gradually  gone  to  ruin,  until  at  length 
he  was  consigned  to  a  pauper  asylum. 
He  had  been  placed  there  under  a  very 
different  system  of  treatment  from  that 
which  now  prevails.  It  had  even  been 
thought  necessary,  in  the  first  instance, 
to  confine  him  with  chains  and  hand- 
cuffs: and  he  would  often  struo[o:le,  in  a 
paroxysm  of  passion,  to  set  himself  free. 
But  after  a  few  years,  all  the  more 
violent  symptoms  of  his  disorder  had 
entirely  disappeared,  and  he  became  so 
quiet  and  resigned,  that  the  physician 


V. 


f 


40 


THE   OLD   MAN  S  HOME. 


had  considered  it  safe  to  release  him 
from  his  bonds,  and  suffer  him  to  wan- 
der at  large  within  the  precincts  of  the 
Asylum. 

"  There  can  be  no  doubt  of  the  facts, 
sir,"  continued  my  guide,  "  for  the 
marks  on  poor  Robin's  wrists  prove 
him  to  have,  at  one  time,  undergone  a 
very  rigorous  confinement ;  and  yet, 
when  I  came  here,  I  found  that  he  had 
been  long  in  the  enjoyment  of  compara- 
tive freedom.  But  it  is  a  case  that 
always  perplexes  me,  when  I  think  of 
it;  for  the  general  effect  of  harsh  treat- 
ment is  to  render  the  patient  more 
violent  and  intractable  than  before: 
and  I  cannot  understand  from  what 
cause  the  change  in  poor  Robin's  con- 
duct could  in  the  first  instance  have 
arisen." 

"  Do  you  not  think,"  I  asked,  "  that 
it  may  have  been  a  sign  of  returning 
reason  ?"      He   smiled  at  the  question, 


(  I 


THE   OLD  MAN  S   HOME. 


41 


as  he  replied,  "So  far  from  it,  sir,  that  it 
was  accompanied  by  a  new  and  extra- 
ordinary delusion,  which  never  after- 
wards entirely  left  him.  He  fancied 
that  the  bonds  which  he  felt  and  saw, 
were  merely  imaginary,  and  that  there 
were  other  invisible  chains  which  were 
the  real  cause  of  his  confinement.  They 
say,  that  from  the  time  this  idea  once 
gained  possession  of  his  mind,  he  made 
no  farther  effort  to  recover  his  freedom, 
but  even  thanked  the  attendants  for  the 
care  they  were  taking  of  him,  and  be- 
came as  gentle  and  submissive  as  a 
child."  Then  I  remembered  the  meta- 
phor, which  the  old  man  had  employed 
when  the  marks  on  his  wrists  had 
attracted  my  attention ;  and  I  said 
within  myself  that  it  was  not  indeed 
the  return  of  reason,  but  a  brighter  and 
a  far  holier  light,  which  had  thus  shone 
on  the  poor  captive,  and  brought  peace 
and  resignation  to  his  soul. 


42 


THE   OLD  man's  HOME. 


After  his  partial  release,  the  manners 
and  lano[ua2:e  of  Robin  had  soon  excited 
observation,  and  strengthened  the  belief 
that  he  must  at  one  time  have  known 
better  days.  It  was  not,  however,  till 
the  milder  system  of  treatment  was 
introduced  generally  into  the  Asylum, 
that  the  full  beauty  of  his  character  had 
developed  itself.  Since  that  time,  he 
had  gradually  won  the  affection  of  many 
of  the  patients,  and  had  become  an 
object  of  deep  interest  to  all  visitors. 
They  had  often  come  for  the  express 
purpose  of  talking  with  him.  "And," 
continued  my  conductor,  *'  I  often  lis- 
tened with  w^onder  to  the  various  inter- 
pretations they  put  upon  his  answers. 
Some  would  discover  in  them  poetry; 
some,  philosophy;  some,  religion;  some, 
I  know  not  what,  according  to  the  pre- 
vious bias  of  their  own  minds."  I 
inquired  in  what  light  he  himself  was 
disposed  to  view  them?     "As  the  wan- 


THE  OLD  MAN  S  HOME. 


43 


derings  of  insanity,"  he  replied  ;  "  for 
poor  Robin  was,  undoubtedly,  mad:" 
but  presently  added,  more  thoughtfully, 
"yet  there  was  something  in  his  pecu- 
liar kind  of  madness  which  I  could 
never  exactly  fathom." 

I  asked,  whether  no  friend  or  relative 
had  come  to  inquire  after  the  old  man,, 
during  the  long  period  of  his  confine- 
ment? "No  one,"  answered  my  con- 
ductor; "and  so  far,  it  was  a  mercy 
that  he  had  been  deprived  of  his  reason, 
since  his  madness  prevented  his  being 
aware  of  his  own  solitary  condition." 

"How  do  you  mean?"  I  said; 
"surely  he  could  not  help  feeling  thai 
he  was  alone  ?" 

"  On  the  contrary,"  he  replied,  "  he 
fully  believed  that  he  had  a  wife  and 
children  and  home,  and  would  speak, 
from  day  to  day,  of  going  to  join  them. 
Poor  fellow !  at  one  time,  those  who 
had  the  care  of  him  would  argue  with 


\ 


i  ' 


L. 


44 


THE   OLD  man's  HOME. 


him,  and  endeavour  to  explain  to  him 
that  he  was  under  a  delusion.     And  the 
old  man  would  soon  get  confused  in  his 
reasoning,    and    end    by    wringing    his 
hands,  in  an  agony  of  grief.     But,  since 
I    have    come    here,  I  have   thought  it 
best  to  humour  him  in  the  belief;  and 
not  only  forbidden  all  contradiction  on 
this  subject,  but  encouraged  the  attend- 
ants to  talk  to  him  about  his  home,  and 
promise,  that    if  he    behaved   well,  he 
should  go  there  very  soon.      You  will 
hardly  believe  that  I  have  seen  tears  of 
joy  run  down  his  cheeks  at  these  simple 
words.    Yet  some  have  said,  that  it  was 
almost  cruel  to  encourage  a  hope  which 
must  end  in  disappointment  at  last." 

"But  did  it  end  in  disappointment?" 
I  said,  following  my  own  thoughts, 
rather  than  addressing  my  companion. 
He  seemed  struck  by  the  remark,  and, 
after  a  pause,  replied,  "Why,  sir,  one 
can  hardly  say  that  it  did ;  for  the  hope 


k 


I 


THE   OLD   man's   HOME. 


45 


seemed  to  grow  stronger,  instead  of 
weaker,  as  year  after  year  passed  by ; 
and  he  continued  in  the  same  happy 
delusion  to  the  very  hour  of  his  death. 
I  have  often  thought  that  this  imaginary 
home  was  a  source  of  greater  joy  and 
comfort  to  him  than  the  possession  of 
any  actual  home  could  have  been. 
When  anything  vexed  or  disturbed  him, 
he  would  say,  that  when  at  home,  he 
should  feel  it  no  more.  When  he  felt 
dull  and  depressed,  he  w^ould  rouse 
himself  by  the  thought  that  he  was 
going  home.  I  myself  have,  at  times, 
felt  disposed  to  envy  him  his  belief:  and 
there  was  something  very  wonderful  in 
the  influence  it  gave  him  over  his  com- 
panions." 

I  inquired,  how  this  belief  could  in- 
fluence others  ?  "  Because,"  said  he, 
"  Robin  was  unable  to  separate  the 
present  from  the  future ;  and  so  it  was 
part  of  his  confusion  of  ideas  to  believe 


"~l 


4G 


THE    OLD   MAiN  S   HOxME. 


that  those  with  whom  he  lived  here, 
would  live  with  him  in  his  home  also. 
It  is  the  only  instance  I  have  known  of 
a  person  under  the  influence  of  insanity 
being  able  to  impart  his  own  views  to 
his  companions.  But  there  seemed  to 
be  a  kind  of  infection  in  the  old  man's 
madness  ;  and  more  than  one  patient, 
who  had  previously  been  plunged  in 
hopeless  despondency,  was  gradually 
led  to  take  interest  in  Robin's  home. 
The  effect  has  been  so  salutary  with 
us,  that  I  have  often  wished  the  same 
happy  delusion  could  be  introduced 
generally  into  other  asylums." 

I  was  following  the  deep  tr-ain  of 
reflection  awakened  by  this  remark, 
and  wondering  how  far  it  might  indeed 
be  possible  to  graft  religion  on  the 
imaofination,  and  so  to  soothe  and  cheer 
the  dreams  of  insanity  with  the  hope 
of  Heaven ;  when  my  conductor  again 
resumed    the     conversation.      "  There 


THE   OLD   MAN  S   HOME. 


47 


was,  sir,"  he  said,  "another  delusion 
of  the  old  man,  scarcely  less  happy  in 
its  consequences  than  his  belief  about 
his  home.  You  might  have  fancied 
that,  from  having  once  known  better 
days,  he  would  have  felt  bitterly  the 
degradation  of  his  new  condition ;  but 
the  whole  time  that  he  was  in  the 
Asylum  he  seemed  utterly  unconscious 
that  he  was  dependent  on  the  parish 
for  support." 

"  Do  you  mean,"  I  asked,  "  that  he 
imagined  something  had  been  preserved 
from  the  wreck  of  iiis  own  property  ?" 

"  Not  in  the  least,"  he  replied ;  "  he 
was  fully  aware  that  his  own  property 
was  gone ;  but  he  believed  his  daily 
wants  to  be  supplied  by  a  kind  of 
miracle ;  and  would  often  observe  that 
he  had  gone  on  for  more  than  fifty  years 
without  making  provision  for  the  mor- 
row, and  3'et  had  never  known  what  it 
was  to  be  without  clothing:  or  food.     Of 


48 


THE   OLD  man's   HOME. 


course,  sir,  I  did  everything  in  my 
power  to  encourage  him  in  the  belief: 
but,  one  day,  I  was  greatly  annoyed  to 
find  a  visitor,  who  was  not  aware  of  the 
old  man's  peculiarities,  endeavouring 
to  explain  to  him  that  the  parish  was 
bound  to  find  him  support." 

"And    did    he,"   I    asked,    "appear 
much  hart  at  the  discovery  ?" 

"Fortunately  not,  sir,"  he  replied; 
"  and  this  I  own  quite  took  me  by 
surprise,  for  I  greatly  feared  lest  the 
consciousness  of  his  dependence  might 
destroy  that  feeUng  of  self-respect, 
which,  in  all  cases  of  insanity,  it  is 
so  important  to  preserve.  But  Robin 
was  rather  pleased  than  vexed  at  the 
idea  of  the  parish  providing  for  him. 
Presently,  however,  he  grew  bewil- 
dered, and  shook  his  head,  and  said, 
that,  after  all,  the  parish  could  not 
provide  for  him  beyond  a  single  day, 
and  that,  perhaps,  to-morrow  he  might 


THE  OLD  man's  HOME. 


49 


be  at  home.  The  visitor  was  beginning 
to  say  something  in  reply ;  but  Robin's 
home  was  with  me  sacred  ground,  and 
I  would  not  suffer  the  argument  to  pro- 
ceed further." 

Another  pause  of  some  minutes  fol- 
lowed, until  I  broke  it  by  inquiring 
whether  the  child  that  I  had  observed 
at  the  entrance  were  related  to  the  old 
man. 

"Oh,  no,  sir,"  he  replied,  "little 
Annie  is  my  own  daughter,  and  many 
persons  have  wondered  that  I  suffered 
her  to  be  so  constantly  with  him.  But 
I  consider  the  society  of  children  to  be 
very  beneficial  to  the  insane  ;  there  is 
something  in  their  ways  and  language 
which  they  can  understand  far  better 
than  our  own ;  and  this  was  peculiarly 
the  case  with  poor  Robin." 

"  And  do  you  suppose,"  I  said, 
"  that  the  child  liked  to  be  with 
him  ?" 


rz 


50 


THE   OLD   MAN  S   HOME. 


"Undoubtedly,"  he  replied;  "for  the 
choice  was  her  own.  I  merely  encour- 
aged it.  But  Robin  had  an  inexhausti- 
ble stock  of  fairy  tales,  which  made  him 
a  great  favourite  with  children ;  and 
Annie  would  sit  and  listen  to  them  for 
hours  together." 

"Do  you  really  mean,"  I  asked,  in 
some  surprise,  "  that  they  were  fairy 
tales?" 

"  Why,  sir,  for  that  matter,"  he  an- 
swered, "  poor  Robin  himself  believed 
them  to  be  true,  and  it  was  that  which 
gave  a  peculiar  interest  to  his  manner 
of  telling  them.  Some  visitors  have 
fancied  them  to  be  a  kind  of  allegory  ; 
and  I  have  often  traced  in  the  words 
a  double  meaning,  of  which  the  old 
man  himself  could  hardly  have  been 
conscious.  But,  however  this  may 
have  been,  it  is  clear  that  they  were 
connected  with  his  particular  mental 
delusion,   from    the   way  in    which    his 


THE    OLD   MAN  S   HOME. 


61 


imagmary  home  formed  the  prominent 
feature  of  every  story." 

I  expressed  a  wish  to  hear  one  of 
them,  and  yet  was  hardly  sorry  when  he 
confessed  himself  to  be  unable  to  com- 
ply with  my  request.  He  told  me  that 
he  had  only  heard  them  in  detached 
portions,  for  the  patients  in  the  Asylum 
were  too  numerous  to  allow  him  to  de- 
vote as  much  time  to  poor  Robin  as  he 
might  otherwise  have  done.  "But,  sir," 
he  continued,  "little  Annie  knows  them 
all  by  heart,  though  I  am  afraid  to-day 
she  is  feeling  too  deeply  the  loss  of 
her  companion  to  be  able  to  repeat 
one.  There  certainly  was  something 
very  singular  in  her  fondness  for  the 
old  man,  and  I  have  often  been  pep^ 
plexed  at  the  kind  of  influence  he  had 
over  her.  She  herself  was  sometimes 
a  sufferer  from  his  delusions,  and  vet 
always  fancied  poor  Robin  must  be  in 
the    right,    and    would    submit    to    his 


52 


THE  OLD  man's  HOME. 


wishes  without  a  murmur  or  complaint. 
On  one  occasion,  I  myself  felt  called 
upon  to  interfere." 

I  befjijed   him  to  relate  the  circum- 
stance  to  which  he  referred. 

"It  was,  sir,"  he  said,  "on  Annie's 
ninth  birth-day,  in   November   last.     I 
had  given  her   in   the   morning  a  new 
Victoria  half-crown,  and  she  went  im- 
mediately to  exhibit  her  treasure  to  her 
friend.     She  looked  grave  and  thought- 
ful on  her  return;  and,  when  I  asked 
w^hat  purchases  she  had  made  with  her 
present,  she  confessed  that  the  old  man 
had  begged  it  of  her,  and  she  had  given 
it    liim.     The    next   day,  I  told    Robin 
how  wrong   he   had   been   to  take   the 
poor  child's  money.     But  he  answered, 
with  his  usual  strangeness,  that  he  did 
not  in  the  least  want  it,  and  had  asked 
for  it  because  he  loved  little  Annie,  and 
wished   to   do  her  a    kindness.      Now, 
most   people   would   liave   thought  that 


THE   OLD  MAX  S   HOME. 


53 


this  was  rather  a  reason  for  giving  her 
a  present  than  for  taking  one  away. 
And  yet  the  old  man  spoke  the  truth, 
for  he  knew  no  better.  It  was  one 
of  his  peculiarities  to  imagine  that  he 
was  conferring  a  favour  whenever  he 
received  one." 

There  was  a  passage  from  Holy  Scrip- 
ture which  this  answer  suggested  to  my 
mind.  I  remembered  "the  words  of  the 
Lord  Jesus,  how  He  said,  It  is  more 
blessed  to  give  than  to  receive,"*  and 
I  repeated  it  rather  to  myself  than  to 
my  companion.  The  words,  however, 
caught  his-  ear,  and  he  observed  that 
it  was  very  likely  I  had  hit  upon  the 
truth;  for  the  understanding  texts  of 
Scripture  in  their  literal  meaning,  was 
one  feature  of  poor  Robin's  insanity. 

With  a  view  to  pursuing  the  subject 
farther,  I  inquired  whether  the  old  man 
had  restored  the  money. 

*  Acts  XX.  35. 

5« 


.-,-. 


54 


THE    OLD   MAN  S   HOME. 


"  No,  sir,"  replied  my  guide ;  "  and 
this  is  the  most  provoking  part  of  the 
story.  I  should  not  so  much  have 
minded  if  he  had  wished  for  it  as  a 
keepsake  from  the  child ;  but  he  said 
he  had  lent  it  to  some  companion  who 
had  more  need  of  it  than  himself.  He 
did  not  even  so  much  as  remember  his 
mime.  I  told  him  he  had  much  better 
have  given  it  at  once,  as  he  had  no 
chance  of  seeing  it  again.  His  own 
mind,  however,  was  perfectly  at  rest 
about  it,  and  he  assured  me  that  it  was 
only  lent,  and  would  undoubtedly  be 
restored,  if  not  sooner,  at  least  when  he 
went  home.  Of  course,  sir,  when  he 
touched  upon  his  home,  I  did  not  ven- 
ture to  press  him  farther.  But  this  was 
another  of  his  delusions,  which,  though 
comparatively  harmless  while  he  was 
staying  here,  must  of  itself  have  entirely 
unfitted  him  for  the  management  of  his 
own  affairs.     He  would  lend  all  that  lie 


THE  OLD  man's  HOME. 


65 


had  to  his  brother  paupers,  and,  though 
no  one  ever  thought  of  repaying  him, 
was  just  as  happy  as  if  the  things 
remained  in  his  own  possession." 

And  another  passage  of  Holy  Scrip- 
ture rose  to  my  remembrance,  "He  that 
hath  pity  on  the  poor,  lendeth  unto  the 
Lord;  and  look,  what  he  layeth  out, 
it  shall  be  paid  him  again."  And  I 
did  not  wonder  that,  with  so  sure  a 
promise,  the  mind  of  poor  Robin  should 
have  been  at  rest. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

Lver  the  richesl,  lenderest  glow 

Sets  round  th'  aulumnal  sun — 
Bui  there  eight  fulls;  no  heart  may  knovr 

The  bliga  when  life  id  done. 

CHRISTIAN  YEAR. 

I  HAVE  reserved  for  a  separate  chapter 
that  part  of  my  conversation  within  the 
walls  of  the  Asylum,  which  led  to  a  de- 
scription of  the  closing  scene  of  the  old 
man's  life.  I  was  still  reluctant  to  admit 
his  insanity,  for  it  seemed  to  me  that  he 
had  only  so  fully  realized  the  presence 
of  the  unseen  world,  as  to  have  forgot- 
ten altogether  the  things  of  sight  in  the 
things  of  faith.  I  inquired,  therefore, 
of  my  companion,  whether  any  more 
decided  symptoms  of  madness  had  ever 


-». 


THE   OLD   MAN  S  HOME. 


57 


exhibited  themselves  than  those  which 
he  had  already  mentioned.  He  ap- 
peared surprised  at  the  question,  but 
replied,  that,  though  the  old  man  was 
always  more  or  less  under  the  influence 
of  the  disorder,  there  undoubtedly  were 
certain  periodic  returns  of  it,  and  that 
these  uniformly  occurred  at  the  com- 
mencement of  spring. 

*'  And  did  these,"  I  asked,  "  render 
him  for  the  time  violent  and  intracta- 
ble ?" 

"Oh,  no,  sir,"  he  answered;  "ever 
since  I  have  known  him  he  has  been 
the  same  quiet  and  inoffensive  creature, 
and  his  madness  used  rather  to  assume 
a  melancholv  form.  He  became  sad  and 
dejected,  and  refused  to  eat,  and  would 
pass  whole  days  together  in  his  own 
solitary  cell.  On  one  occasion,  my  wife 
sent  little  Annie,  in  the  hope  that  she 
might  cheer  him ;  but  he  would  not 
even  admit  the  child ;  he  told  her  that 


68 


-'< 


THE  OLD  MAN  S  HOME. 


his  father  was  then  with  him,  and  that 
he  would  not  talk  to  her.  I  went 
myself  when  I  heard  this;  but,  upon 
opening  the  door,  I  found,  as  I  ex- 
pected, that  he  was  alone." 

''  Perhaps,"  said  I,  "  he  may  have 
meant  that  he  was  praying  to  his  Father 
in  Heaven. 

"It  is  not  unlikely,"  he  replied  ;  "  for 
prayer  was  one  way  in  which  at  these 
seasons  his  madness  most  frequently 
exhibited  itself.  I  mean,"  he  added, 
observins:  mv  look  of  surprise,  "  that 
he  did  not  then  pray  like  other  people, 
but  would  often  remain  whole  hours 
together  upon  his  knees." 

And  I  remembered  how  the  pro- 
phetess Anna  was  said  to  have  served 
God  with  fastings  and  prayers  night 
and  day,  and  how  our  blessed  Lord 
Himself  had  continued  a  whole  night  in 
prayer  to  God  ;  but  I  made  no  farther 
reply. 


fz-z=- 


_J 


x', 


THE   OLD  MAN  S  HOME 


59 


"  The  doctor,"  resumed  my  con- 
ductor, "considered  the  long  solitude 
to  be  so  bad  for  him,  that  for  the  last 
few  days  he  had  not  suffered  him  to 
remain  in  his  cell.  It  was,  perhaps, 
this  circumstance  which  turned  the  cur- 
rent of  his  thoughts  into  another  chan- 
nel, and  led  to  his  wandering  from  the 
Asylum." 

I  was  not  sorry  to  change  the  con- 
versation, by  inquiring  how  he  had 
contrived  his  escape. 

"  Nay,"  he  replied,  "  it  is  hardly  fair 
to  speak  of  it  as  an  escape.  We  were 
never  very  strict  with  the  old  man,  and 
often  suffered  him  to  go  beyond  the 
boundaries.  On  the  present  occasion, 
he  had  made  no  secret  of  his  intention, 
and  told  one  of  the  attendants  that  he 
was  anxious  to  pay  his  wife  and  chil- 
dren a  visit,  and  should  soon  be  back. 
I  have  no  doubt  myself  that  he  intended 
to   keep    his   word  ;    but    he   probably 


60 


THE    OLD   MAN  S  HOME. 


Started,  in  the  first  instance,  in  a  wrong 
direction,  and  so  lost  his  way." 

*'What  do  you  mean,"  I  asked,  "by 
his  starting  in  a  wrong  direction?  I 
thought  you  were  ignorant  from  what 
part  of  the  island  he  had  been  brought 
here." 

"True,  sir,"  he  replied;  "but  Robin 
himself  always  fancied  that  his  home 
lay  towards  the  East:  the  little  window 
of  the  cell  he  occupied  looked  in  that 
direction  ;  and,  though  it  was  too  cold 
for  him  in  the  winter  months,  we  never 
could  persuade  him  to  change  it  for  one 
with  a  southern  aspect.  He  always  said 
that  he  did  not  feel  the  cold,  as  long  as 
he  could  see  his  home.  Now,  there  is 
nothins:  but  a  small  hamlet  visible  from 
the  window,  and,  of  course,  when  the 
old  man  did  not  return,  I  sent  to  it  to 
inquire  after  him." 

"And  had  he  been  there?"  I  said. 

"  No,   sir,"   he    replied ;   "  and,  after 


THE   OLD  MAN  S  HOME. 


Gl 


wasting  many  hours  in  the  search,  we 
at  length  heard  that  he  had  been  seen 
walking:  alou":  the  road  which  led  direct 
to  the  Undercliif.  It  was  this  circum- 
stance which  enabled  him  to  get  so 
many  miles  from  the  Asylum  before 
he  was  overtaken.  But,  as  I  said,  I  do 
not  think  that  he  intentionally  misled 
us,  but  only  missed  his  way." 

Now  I  knew  full  well  that  the  village 
of  B 


—  was  not  the  home  of  which 
the  old  man  had  spoken;  but,  when  I 
remembered  the  ngonj  with  which  he 
had  implored  to  be  allowed  to  proceed 
thither,  I  could  not  believe  that  mere 
accident  was  the  cause  of  his  journey. 
I  resolved  to  return  thither  to  prosecute 
my  inquiries ;  but  before  I  left  the  Asy- 
lum, asked  to  see  the  room  which  poor 
Robin  had  occupied. 

"  This  is  it,  sir,"  said  my  conductor, 
as  he  threw  open  the  door  of  a  low 
narrow  cell.     "You  will  find  it  smaller 

6 


G2 


THE   OLD   MAN  S  HOME. 


and  more  comfortless  than  many  others, 
but  it  is  the  one  in  which  he  was  placed 
when  he  was  first  brought  here ;  and  he 
had  become  so  fond  of  his  little  window, 
and  the  view  towards  the  East,  that  it 
would  have  been  a  mistaken  kindness 
to  force  him  to  change  it." 

I  scarcely  heard  the  w^ords  of  apology, 
for  I  felt  a  sudden  thrill  as  I  found  my- 
self ushered  thus  unexpectedly  into  the 
chamber  of  death.  The  old  man  was 
lying  upon  his  narrow  bed,  and  a  stream 
of  light  through  the  open  window  fell 
upon  his  tram^uil  countenance.  A  single 
dance  was  sufficient  to  tell  me  not  only 
that  he  was  indeed  dead,  but  that  his 
end  had  been  full  of  peace.  There  was 
no  convulsion  of  the  features,  and  the 
first  symptoms  of  decay  had  not  yet 
appeared.  His  eyes  had  been  left  un- 
closed, but  the  wandering  light  was  no 
longer  there,  and  the  smile  which  from 
time  to  time   had    been  wont  to  play 


THE   OLD  MAN  S  HOME. 


63 


across  his  lips,  rested  quietly  upon  them 
now.  The  one  idea  that  his  look  and 
posture  alike  conveyed  to  the  mind  was 
that  of  perfect  trancpillity  and  repose. 
I  felt  that  his  long  journey  had  at  length 
been  finished,  and  that  the  old  man  was 
at  rest  in  his  home. 

My  companion  also  seemed  for  awhile 
absorbed  in  thouoht.  He  advanced 
softly  to  the  bedside,  and  it  was  not 
until,  with  a  gentle  hand,  he  had  closed 
the  old  man's  eyes,  that  he  broke  the 
silence  by  observing,  "Ah,  sir,  morning 
after  morning  I  have  found  him  lying 
thus,  and  gazing  through  the  open  win- 
dow. His  sight  was  gradually  becoming 
very  weak  from  the  glare  of  light,  but 
he  was  unconscious  of  it  himself.  And 
it  was  but  yesterday  he  told  me  that  in 
a  little  while  he  should  be  no  lons^er 
dazzled  by  the  brightness  of  his  home. 
Poor  fellow !  when  I  came  into  the  room 
a  few  hours  since,  and  saw  his  eyes  so 


! 


G4 


THE   OLD  MAX  S   HOME. 


calm  and  motionless,  though  the  full 
rays  of  the  sun  were  falling  upon  them, 
I  knew  that  he  must  be  dead,  and  could 
not  help  thinking  how  singularly  his 
words  had  come  true." 

There  was  something  in  the  tone  of 
voice  in  which  this  description  was 
given,  that  proved  the  speaker  to  have 
some  secret  feeling  of  its  allegorical 
meaning,  though  he  himself  would  pro- 
bably have  been  unable  to  define  it. 

A  Bible  and  Prayer-Book  were  lying 
on  the  table  by  the  bedside.  I  turned 
to  the  fly-leaf  of  the  former,  in  the  hope 
that  I  might  at  least  gather  from  it  the 
poor  wanderer's  name.  There  was  writ- 
ten in  it,  "Susan  Wakeling ;  the  first 
gift  of  her  husband,  April  ISth,  177G." 
And  when  I  remembered  the  old  man's 
great  age,  I  conjectured  that  the  sacred 
volume  must  formerly  have  been  his 
own  wedding  present  to  his  bride.  I 
replaced  it  on  the  table,  and  it  opened 


-'< 


THE   OLD  MAN  S  HOME. 


65 


I! 


of  its  own  accord  at  the  eleventh  chap- 
ter of  the  Epistle  to  the  Hebrews.  The 
page  was  much  worn,  as  though  it  had 
not  only  been  often  read,  but  many  tears 
had  fallen  upon  it.  My  eye  quickly 
rested  on  the  passage,  "  These  all  died 
in  faith  ....  and  confessed  that  thev  were 
strangers  and  pilgrims  on  the  earth. 
For  they  that  say  such  things  declare 
plainly  that  they  seek  a  country.  And, 
truly,  if  they  had  been  mindful  of  that 
country  from  whence  they  came  out, 
they  might  have  had  opportunity  to 
have  returned.  But  now  they  desire  a 
oetter  country,  that  is,  an  Heavenly."* 
And  while  I  read,  it  seemed  as  though 
I  had  found  the  text  to  the  old  man's 
history. 

Another  smaller  volume  was  near 
them,  which  proved  to  be  the  Christian 
Year.  My  conductor  told  me  tliat  it 
was  the    gift   of  the  chaplain.      For  a 


*  Heb.  xL  ia-15. 


66 


THE   OLD  man's  HOME. 


moment  I  wondered  at  his  choice,  for  I 
knew  that  it  contained  much  which  poor 
Robin  must  liave  been  unable  to  under- 
stand.    But  the  hymn  for  Septuagesima 
Sunday,  and  many  others,  were  marked 
with  pencil.     And  as  my  eye  glanced 
over  them,  my  wonder  ceased.     They 
were  all  in  such  perfect  unison  with  the 
old  man's  own  thoughts,  that,  however 
faint  may  have  been  the  image  which 
they    conveyed,   they   could    not   have 
failed   to   exercise  a  soothing  influence 
on  his  mind. 

I  inquired  whether  the  chaplain  used 
to  come  often  to  see  him.  "  Very  fre- 
quently," was  the  reply.  "He  took 
great  interest  in  poor  Robin,  and  the 
old  man  was  grateful  for  it."  "It  cer- 
tainly was  singular,"  he  added,  thought- 
fully, "that  on  his  return  yesterday 
evening,  he  should  have  expressed  so 
earnest  a  wish  that  the  chaplain  should 
be  sent  for." 


THE  OLD  man's  HOME. 


67 


"And  did  you  refuse?"  I  asked. 

"Fortunately  not,  sir,"  he  replied. 
"I  hesitated  at  first,  for  it  was  very 
late,  and  poor  Robin  was  evidently 
much  exhausted  with  the  fatigue  and 
excitement  of  the  day.  But  he  became 
so  anxious  about  it,  that  my  wife  inter- 
ceded for  him,  and  told  me  she  thought 
he  would  go  to  sleep  more  quietly  after 
he  had  been  here.  I  well  remember 
now  the  peculiar  emphasis  with  which 
the  old  man  repeated  her  words, 
and  said,  *  Yes,  yes,  I  shall  doubtless 
go  to  sleep  more  quietly  after  he 
has  been  here.'  It  almost  seemed  as 
though  he  felt  his  end  to  be  near  at 
hand." 

I  begged  to  know  what  passed  at 
his  interview  with  the  chaplain.  My 
companion,  however,  could  give  me  no 
information  as  to  the  first  part  of  it, 
for  the  old  man  had  desired  to  be  left 
alone  with  him,  and  his  wish  had  been 


Li^ 


68 


THE  OLD  MAN  S  HOME. 


at  once  indulged.    "But,"  he  continued, 
"on  our  return  to  the  room,  we  found 
him   looking   more    light   and    cheerful 
than   we    had    ever    before    seen   him; 
and  when  I  congratulated  him,  he  said 
that    it   was    no    wonder,    for    a    very 
heavy  burthen  had  been  taken  away. 
The    chaplain    then    told    us    that    he 
proposed  to  administer  to  him  the  Holy 
Communion,  and  invited   my  wife  and 
myself  to  partake  of  it  with  him.      It 
is  a  point  on  which  I  have  always  felt 
doubtful,    for   persons    in   the    state    of 
poor   Robin   must  have   very  indistinct 
views  of  the    real   nature   of  a    sacra- 
ment.    In  this  case  the  old  man's  own 
expression  proved  it ;  for,  as  he  joined 
in  the  chaplain's  request,  he  told  us  that 
he  was  going  on  a  long  journey,  and 
might  require  the  food  to  support  him 

on  the  way." 

"Nay,"  I  could  not  help  observing, 
I  "  surely    his    journey    lay    through    the 


THE    OLD   MAN  S   HOME. 


09 


valley  of  the  shadow  of  death,  and  he 
meant  that  his  soul  would  be  refreshed 
on  its  passage  by  the  body  and  blood 
of  Christ,  even  as  the  body  is  by  bread 
and  wine." 

My  companion  shook  his  head  as  he 
replied,  *'I  believe,  sir,  Robin  used  the 
words  literally,  but  the  chaplain  took 
the  same  view  of  them  with  yourself, 
and  it  was  a  point  for  him  and  not  me 
to  decide.  Certainly  nothing  could  be 
more  grave  or  attentive  than  the  old 
man's  manner  durins:  the  whole  cere- 
mony.  And  it  may  be  that  some  glim- 
mering of  returning  reason  was  sent  to 
prepare  him  for  the  approach  of  death. 
Such  cases  are  not  of  uncommon  occur- 


11 


rence. 

I  could  not  help  thinking  that,  in 
spiritual  things,  poor  Robin  had  not 
needed  its  light ;  but  I  made  no  further 
reply ;  and  my  companion  resumed  his 
narrative. 


70 


THE   OLD  MAN  S  HOME. 


*When  the  service  was  over,  the  old 
man   merely    squeezed    the    chaplain's 
liand  in  parting,  but  did  not  speak  to 
him.    I  also  soon  afterwards  went  away, 
but  my  wife  stayed  for  some  time  longer 
watching  by  his  bedside.     He  remained 
perfectly  still  and  silent,  though  his  eyes 
were  open.      At  length  she  asked  him 
whether  he  did  not  feel  tired,  and  wish 
to  go  to  sleep  ?     And  she  tells  me,  that 
he  smiled  like  a  little  infant  as  he  re- 
pUed,  '  Oh  no,  not  at  all  tired ;  for  all 
that  wearied  me  has  been  taken  away.' 
And  then,  after  a  pause,  he  added,  'But 
you  may  wish  me  good  night  now,  for  I 
shall  be  asleep  very  soon ;— and  tell  dear 
Annie  I  am  going  home.'     He  spoke  in 
so  cheerful  a  tone,  that  my  wife  little 
thouc^ht  they  were  his  last  words,  and 
she  left  him,  as  she  fancied,  to  repose. 
But  it  was  a  sleep  from  which  he  never 
woke  again.    Ah,  sir,"  he  continued,  "it 
seems  a  sad  thing  to  die  thus  forsaken 


THE   OLD  MAN  S  HOME. 


71 


and  alone ;  and  yet,  after  all,  many  who 
have  kind  friends  and  relatives  round 
their  sick  beds  might  envy  poor  Robin 
his  peaceful  end.  He  went  off  so  quietly 
at  last,  that  those  who  slept  in  the  room 
adjoining  were  not  disturbed  during  the 
night  by  the  slightest  sound.  But  early 
this  morning,  when  I  came  to  inquire 
after  him,  he  was  lying  just  as  you  now 
see  him,  quite  dead!" 

The  deep  feeling  with  which  these 
words  were  pronounced,  convinced  me 
that  he  was  no  less  touched  than  myself 
by  the  contemplation  of  the  outward 
tranquillity  of  the  old  man's  death.  But 
who  can  realize  the  inward  peace  that 
must  have  been  there  when  the  body 
fell  asleep,  and  the  soul  was  released 
from  its  long  imprisonment,  and  carried 
by  angels  on  its  Homeward  journey ! 

As  we  left  the  old  man's  room,  I 
inquired  whether  there  were  many  be- 
sides little  Annie  who  mourned  his  loss. 


r 


72 


THE  OLD  man's  HOME. 


A  smile  again  crossed  the  features  ot 
my  companion,  as  he  replied,  "There 
were  many  of  the  patients  who  loved 
him  almost  as  dearly  as  the  child  her- 
self, but  I  can  scarcely  speak  of  them 
as    mourners    now.      A   report    spread 
among  them  this    morning  that  Robin 
was    going    home ;    I   cannot  tell  from 
what  quarter  it  arose,  but  when  I  came 
to   them,   they  crowded   round    me   to 
know  if  it  were  true." 

"And  did  you,"  I  asked,  "then  tell 
them  that  he  was  dead  ?" 

"  Not  in  so  many  words,"  he  replied. 
"I  merely  said  that  he  was  already 
gone  home,  and  that  they  must  not 
expect  to  see  him  here  again.  And 
more  than  one  voice  exclaimed  in 
reply,  *  Happy,  happy  Robin,  to  be 
taken  home  ! '  " 

Still  I  observed  that  I  had  remarked 
on  the  countenance  of  many  of  the 
patients  an  expression  of  sadness. 


THE   OLD   MAX  S  HOME. 


73 


"True,"  he  answered,  "for  with  them 
the  transition  of  feeling  from  joy  to  grief 
is  very  rapid.  They  are  not,  however, 
sorrowing  for  poor  Robin,  but  for  them- 
selves, because  they  have  not  been  al- 
lowed to  accompany  him.  There  were 
some,  in  the  first  instance,  who  were 
very  loud  in  then-  complaints ;  but  1 
soothed  them  by  saying  that  it  was 
right  ^the  old  man  should  go  first,  be- 
cause be  had  been  here  so  lono^."  After 
a  pause,  he  continued:  "It  is  my  own 
wish,  as  well  as  the  chaplain's,  that 
many  of  them  should  attend  the  funeral, 
for  I  would  gladly  pay  this  tribute  of 
respect  to  Robin's  memory.  And  yet 
I  am  half  reluctant  to  give  way  to  it : 
the  remembrance  of  the  scene  mifjlit 
afterwards  throw  some  gloom  over  the 
bright  and  happy  notions  which  they 
have  now  formed  of  his  home." 

I  replied,  that  it  might  be  so;  "and 
yet,"  I  added,  "they  would  find  in  the 


74 


THE   OLD  MAN''S  HOME. 


thanksgivings  and  prayers  of  the  Burial 
Service  only  the  exact  echo  of  their  own 
joy  and  sorrow."  And  as  I  said  this,  1 
could  not  help  feeling  that  the  scene 
after  the  old  man's  death  had  been  in 
perfect  harmony  with  his  life,  and  that 
poor  Robin  was  rightly  rejoiced  over 
and  rightly  mourned. 

My  account  of  my  visit  to  the^  Asy- 
lum has  already  far  exceeded  the  limits 
which  I  had  assigned  it.  And  yet,  at 
the  risk  of  being  wearisome,  I  cannot 
refrain  from  adding  one  more  fragment 
from  my  conversation  within  its  walls, 
before  I  proceed  to  the  more  pleasant 
task  that  lies  beyond.  With  a  view  to 
prosecuting  my  inquiries  in  the  village  of 

B ,  I  asked  my  companion  whether 

Robin  had  ever  dropped  a  hint  of  his 
former  calling. 

"Oh  yes,  sir,"  was  the  reply;  "he 
used  to  say  that  he  had  enlisted  as  a 
soldier  very  early  in  life,  and  had  at  one 


THE  OLD  MAN  S  HOME. 


75 


time  been  made  a  prisoner.  I  have 
seen  the  tears  run  down  little  Annie's 
cheeks  at  the  piteous  tale  he  would  tell 
of  the  way  in  which  his  enemies  had 
bound  him  hand  and  foot,  and  cast  him 
into  a  dark  and  terrible  dungeon,  from 
which  he  had  hardly  escaped  with  his 
life.  But  I  believe  the  whole  story  to 
have  been  imaginary,  and  it  is  one  that 
I  have  little  difficulty  in  accounting  for. 
He  doubtless  referred  to  the  hardships 
he  had  endured  at  the  period  of  his  first 
imprisonment  in  the  Asylum.  No  one 
can  wonder  that  they  should  have  taken 
so  strong  a  hold  on  his  imagination." 

"Did  he,  then,"  I  asked,  "believe 
that  his  w^arfare  had  long  been  at  an 

end  ?" 

"No,  sir,"  he  replied.  "And  per- 
haps it  would  be  more  correct  to  say 
that  the  treatment  to  which  he  had  been 
exposed  was  the  origin  of  his  delusion, 
than  that  it  accounted  for  it.     The  idea 


ii 


) 


'  > 


^-n 


76 


THE    OLD  MAN  S  HOME. 


that  he  was  liable  to  the  attacks  of  some 
secret  enemy,  seems  from  that  time  to 
have  taken   a   fixed    possession    of  his 
brain ;  and  if  any  one  assured  him  that 
he  never  could  be  subjected  to  the  same 
ill  usai^e   aG:ain,  his   invariable   answer 
was,  that  there  was  no  safety  for  him 
except  at  home.      And  then  he  would 
maintain  that  having  once  enlisted,  he 
could    never    cease    to    be    a   soldier, 
and  talk  of  treacherous  foes  and  long 
watchins^s  and  doubtful  conflicts.     You 
would    have    imagined    him,    from   his 
conversation,  to  have  been  one  who  was 
fighting  and  strugghng  all  day  long,  in- 
stead of  the  quiet,  inoffensive  character 
that  he  really  was.     But  this,  sir,  was 
not   all;    he   would    fancy   that   every 
one  else  was  a  soldier  also.     He  almost 
persuaded    little   Annie    that    she   had 
enlisted   in   the   same   army  with  him- 
self; and  often  made  her  sad  by  talk- 
ing of  the  enemies  who  surrounded  her, 


L      


liiris 


iii*" 


#" 


iliilii 


,    ,,,.,„,..  .,'    n'l,!,,.  ■  Ui  I  '  I;,  ;  .i.iHu     Tt,"!  /    lie,' M' '•'  T-, 


sm 


!■; 


J  -.-•    a. 


THE   OLD   MAX's  HOME. 


77 


and  the  service  she  was  required  to 
perform." 

I  here  interrupted  him  by  asking 
whether  the  child  had  not  been  bap- 
tized. He  at  once  perceived  the  drift 
of  the  question,  and  replied,  "  I  know 
what  you  mean,  su',  —  she  was  then 
made  the  soldier  and  servant  of  Christ." 

"Yes,"  I  added,  "and  entered  into  a 
solemn  engagement  to  fight  manfully 
under  His  banner,  against  sin,  the 
world,  and  the  Devil." 

*'  True,"  he  answered ;  "  and  it  is 
very  curious  that  it  was  the  old  man 
himself  who  first  pointed  out  that 
passage  in  the  Prayer-Book  to  me.  I 
remember  it  struck  me  at  the  time 
that  his  peculiar  notions  about  soldiers 
might,  in  some  way,  be  connected  with 
it.  And  I  think  it  far  from  improbable ; 
for  Robin's  madness  seemed  principally 
to  consist  in  his  regarding  metaphors 
as  realities,  and  realities  as  metaphors. 


78 


.'. 


THE   OLD   MAN  S   HOME. 


The  difference  between  him  and  our- 
selves would  be,  that  he  believed  little 
Annie  to  be  really  a  soldier,  and  not 
merely  to  be  called  one  in  the  Prayer- 

Book." 

I  made  no  further  reply,  for  my  own 
thoughts  grew  perplexed,  as  I  tried  to 
determine  with  myself  what  were  truths 
and  realities,  and  what  merely  shadows 
and  metaphors,  of  the  things  pertaining 
to  our  present  existence. 


li 


CHAPTER  V 

Oil,  blisa  of  child-like  innocence,  and  love 
Tried  to  old  age!  creative  power  to  win, 

And  raise  new  worlds,  where  happy  fancies  rove, 
Forgetting  quite  this  grosser  world  of  sin. 

CHRISTIAN  YEAR. 

The  rooms  of  the  Asylum  were  hot  and 
close,  and  as  the  outer  door  opened,  it 
was  very  pleasant  to  escape  from  them 
into  the  fresh,  open  air.  While  we  did 
so,  my  mind  experienced  a  similar  kind 
of  relief,  as  the  plaintive  accents  of 
childhood  broke  in  on  my  prolonged 
conversation  with  the  superintendent. 

In  spite  of  the  interest  I  took  in  his 
narrative  itself,  it  was  with  a  feeling  of 
oppression  that  I  had  listened  to  it;  and 
there  was  something  very  refreshing  in 


so 


THE   OLD  MAX  S  HOME. 


the  sudden  change.  The  sounds  which  1 
now  heard  proceeded  from  little  Annie. 
She  was  standing  on  the  threshold,  just 
as  I  had  seen  her  when  I  entered,  ex- 
cept that  her  grief  was  of  a  less  quiet 
character  than  before,  and  something 
of  impatience    seemed  to   be    mingled 

with  it. 

"It  is  no  use,"  said  her  mother,  as 
we  approached;  "the  poor  child  will 
fret  herself  into  a  fever,  and  I  cannot 
persuade  her  to  come  away.  She  does 
nothinf^  but  beo-  and  entreat  to  be  al- 
lowed  to  see  poor  Robin  again.  I  really 
believe  it  will  be  the  best  way  to  take 
her  to  his  cell." 

"It  must  not  be,"  replied  her  hus- 
band ;  "  she  has  no  idea  of  what  death 
reallv  is;  and  the  sight  of  the  body 
would  fill  her  mind  with  strange  fancies, 
and  perhaps  do  her  serious  harm;  for 
she  herself  is  but  a  poor  weakly  thing. 
You  know  I  never  refused  her  permis- 


THE  OLD  MAN  S  HOME. 


81 


sion  to  visit  him  while  he  was  alive,  but 
I  cannot  suffer  it  now."  "  It  is  singular," 
he  added,  turning  to  me  with  a  look  of 
vexation,  "  that  I  should  have  found 
less  difficulty  in  quieting  the  complaints 
of  all  the  mourners  for  poor  Robin 
within  the  Asylum,  than  in  soothing  the 
grief  of  my  own  little  girl.  I  do  not 
like  to  treat  her  with  severity,  and  yet 
without  it  I  see  no  hope  of  getting  her 
away." 

All  that  I  had  heard  of  the  child,  in- 
spired me  with  a  lively  compassion  for 
her;  and  I  asked  to  be  allowed  to  try 
my  powers  of  persuasion.  Permission 
was  readily  granted ;  and  I  instinctively 
had  recourse  to  the  old  man's  last 
message,  as  the  easiest  way  of  gaining 
access  to  her  heart.  "Annie,"  I  said, 
gently,  "do  you  know  where  your  friend 
is  gone?"  The  simple  question  checked 
her  sobs,  and  she  looked  timidly  in  my 
face,  but  made  no  reply.    "  Poor  Annie !" 


82 


THE   OLD  MAN  S  HOME. 


I  continued  ;  "  and  did  he  indeed  leave 
you  without  teUing  you  whither  he  was 


going  t 

"Home,  sir,  home,"  she  replied;  and 
the  accent,  no  less  than  the  words,  re- 
called to  my  mind  the  childlike  old 
man :  "  he  often  told  me  that  he  was 
going  home." 

"  True,"  I  replied ;  "  and  he  is  gone 
home  now.  Do  you  really  wish  to  see 
him  again?"  She  was  silent;  but  the 
look  of  affection  that  beamed  on  every 
feature  was  a  sufficient  answer ;  so  I 
continued :  "  And  if  you  do  see  him 
again,  Annie,  where  will  it  be  ?"  Her 
voice  faltered,  as  she  repeated  the 
words,  "At  home ;"  and  she  again  burst 
into  tears. 

"Yes,  Annie,"  I  said,  after  a  short 
pause,  "you  cannot  see  him  here,  be- 
cause he  is  gone  away.  He  is  now 
happy  in  the  enjoyment  of  his  home, 
and    you     must    wait     till    you     can 


THE   OLD  man's  HOME. 


83 


go  to  him  there.  But,  perhaps,  your 
home  is  different  from  his.  Is  it  so, 
Annie  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  answered,  with  unex- 
pected earnestness,  "we  are  all  children 
of  the  same  Father,  and  all  travel  to  the 
same  Home — that  is,"  she  added,  look- 
ing down,  and  colouring  deeply,  "if  we 
are  careful  to  keep  in  the  path  that 
leads  to  it." 

"  And  what  path  is  that,  Annie  ?" 

"The  path  of  trustful  obedience,  and 
quiet  faith,  and  holy  love,"  was  her  im- 
mediate reply. 

I  knew  at  once  that  the  words  were 
not  her  own,  but  that  she  spoke  from 
memory,  and  that  I  had  accidentally  led 
her  to  one  of  the  old  man's  allegories. 
I  was  anxious  for  my  own  sake  to  hear 
more  of  it,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that 
it  might  be  good  for  her  own  sorrow 
to  turn  her-  thoughts  for  a  httle  Avhilc 
into    this     channel ;    so    I    continued : 


84 


THE  OLD  MAN  S  HOME. 


"And  is  it  a  pleasant  path,  Annie,  thai 
leads  us  home  ?" 

**  It  is  an  up-hill  path,"  she  said ; 
*'  but,  as  we  walk  along  it,  we  can,  if 
we  will,  awake  soft  notes  of  music  be- 
neath our  feet,  and  there  are  whispering 
winds  to  cheer  us  on  our  way." 

"  And  what,  Annie,"  I  asked,  "  do 
you  mean  by  the  soft  music  and  the 
whispering  wind  ?" 

*'  The  soft  music  is  prayer,"  she  re- 
plied, "and  the  whispering  wind,  the 
Holy  Spirit  of  God." 

"And  can  we,"  I  said,  "have  the 
soft  music  without  the  whispering 
wind  ?  I  mean,  can  we  pray  without 
the  assistance  of  God's  Holy  Spirit*?" 
But  there  was  no  need  for  me  to 
have  explained  the  question ;  the  lan- 
guage of  allegory  was  most  familiar 
to  the  mind  of  the  child,  and  she  had 
recourse  to  it  in  her  reply.  "  No,  sir," 
she    said,   "  for   the    spirit  of  harmony 


THE  OLD  man's  HOME. 


85 


dwells  in  the  breeze ;  and  it  is  the 
wind  alone  that  gives  life  to  the  music, 
and  bears  it  upward  from  earth  to 
Heaven." 

I  cannot  tell  how  far  she  realized  the 
deep  meaning  of  these  words,  for  I  did 
not  venture  to  examine  her  upon  them. 
I  was  afraid  lest  I  should  only  render 
indistinct  the  image  which  they  con- 
veyed to  her  mind,  by  touching  the 
colours  with  an  unskilful  hand. 

Presently  I  resumed:  —  "It  must, 
Annie,  I  think,  be  a  pleasant  path 
along  wliich  the  wind  thus  murmurs, 
and  the  music  plays!" 

"It  is  a  pleasant  path,"  she  replied, 
"and  yet  it  is  very  thickly  covered  with 
thorns."  "But,"  she  added,  and  from 
the  smile  which  for  a  moment  lit  up  her 
countenance,  it  seemed  as  though  this 
were  the  metaphor  which  pleased  her 
best,  "  they  are  all  magic  thorns ;  and 
if  we  look  upward  to  the  clear,  blue 


86 


THE   OLD  MAN  S  HOME. 


sky,  and  tread  firmly  upon  them,  they 
keep  changing  into  flowers." 

"And  is  there  not  another  path,"  I 
said,  venturing  to  guess  at  the  conclu- 
sion of  the  allegory,  "which  leads  away 
from  home,  and  along  which  the  flowers, 
as  you  tread  upon  them,  keep  changing 
into  thorns  ?" 

But  I  was  wrong  in  my  conjecture, 
for  she  looked  perplexed,  and  replied, 
"I  do  not  know,  sir,  about  the  other 
paths;  the  old  man  never  used  to  talk 
to  me  but  of  one."  And  I  felt  ashamed 
of  my  question,  as  I  said  within  myself, 
"Oh,  happy  child,  to  know  as  yet  but 
of  one  path ;  and  happy  teacher,  to  have 
so  shared  the  innocency  of  childhood  as 
to  have  spoken  to  her  but  of  one  !" 

Presently,  however,  she  continued, 
as  though  she  observed  my  confusion : 
"  But,  sir,  he  said  there  were  flowers 
which  grow  by  the  way-side.  When 
the  wind  blows  softly  upon  them  they 


THE   OLD  MAN  S  HOME. 


87 


perfume  the  air;  and  their  fragrance  is 
very  sweet  and  pleasant  to  those  who 
pass  them  by ;  but  if  we  stop  to  gather 
them,  then  they  become  magic  flowers, 
and  keep  changing  into  thorns.  And 
do  you  know,  sir,  why  it  is  so  ?" 

"Not  exactly,"  I  replied;  "I  should 
like  you  to  explain  it  to  me." 

"  Because,  sir,"  she  said,  "  when  we 
gather  them,  wc  stoop  down,  and  turn 
our  eyes  towards  the  earth,  instead  of 
gazing  upward  on  the  clear,  blue  sky." 

"But,  Annie,"  I  observed,  "you  have 
not  yet  told  me  what  are  the  flowers 
which  w^e  gather,  or  the  thorns  on 
which  we  tread." 

"  The  thorns,"  she  replied,  "  are  the 
trials  and  afflictions  which  God  sends 
us ;  the  flowers  are  the  pleasures  and 
amusements  which  we  make  choice  of 
for  ourselves." 

"Then,  Annie,"  I  said,  "the  children 
who  gather  the  magic  flowers  are  those 


r 


88 


THE   OLD  MAN  S  HOME. 


who  follow  their  own  will,  while  those 
who  tread  upon  the  magic  thorns  are 
such  as  submit  themselves  quietly  to 
the  will  of  God." 

Her  countenance  became  grave,  and 
I  saw  that  she  already  guessed  my 
meaning.  I  thought  her  mind  was 
now  sufficiently  prepared  to  allow  me 
to  apply  directly  to  her  own  case  the 
old  man's  allegory ;  and  it  seemed  as 
though  his  spirit  were  resting  upon  me 
while  I  did  so,  and  I  used  almost  uncon- 
sciously the  language  of  metaphor. 

"  Annie,"  I  continued,  "  a  very  sharp 
and  piercing  thorn  was  but  yesterday 
placed  in  your  path.  Your  foot  is 
young  and  tender,  and  I  do  not 
wonder  that  you  should  shrink  from 
treading  upon  it."  She  trembled  vio- 
lently at  this  direct  allusion  to  her  grief, 
and  yet  looked  anxiously  in  my  face, 
as  though  she  wished  me  to  say  more. 
My  own  voice  began  to  falter,  and   I 


THE   OLD  MAN  S  HOME. 


89 


could  only  add,  "  But,  believe  me,  your 
kind  friend  did  not  deceive  you ;  the 
thorn  of  affliction  lies  on  the  path  home- 
wards ;  and  if  you  have  but  courage  to 
walk  quietly  on,  there  is  none  that  with 
greater  certainty  will  change  into  a 
flower.  Go,  Annie,  and  awaken  the 
soft  music,  and  you  will  be  cheered  by 
the  whispering  wind." 

One  by  one  the  tears  trickled  down 
her  cheeks,  as  she  turned  to  her  mother, 
and  said,  **  Forgive  me  for  my  impa- 
tience; I  am  ready  now,  dearest  mother, 
to  accompany  you  home ;  or  I  will  go 
home  directly  myself,  and  you  shall 
follow  me."  She  did  not  trust  herself 
to  pause  an  instant,  or  make  any  further 
reply,  but  expressed  her  gratitude  to 
me  by  a  look,  and  at  once  hastened 
away :  and  while  she  went,  so  vivid 
was  the  impression  w^hich  the  allegory 
had  made  on  my  own  mind,  that  the 
wind  which  played  with  her  garments 


8* 


90 


THE  OLD  man's  HOME. 


seemed  to  possess  some  holy  charm, 
and  I  could  fancy  that  I  was  listening 
to  strains  of  music,  in  the  soft  echo  of 
her  receding  steps. 

The  mother  also  was  silent ;  but 
there  was  no  mistaking  the  expression 
of  her  countenance.  The  subdued  smile 
on  her  lips,  and  the  bright  tears  that 
trembled  in  her  eyes,  as  she  raised 
them  to  Heaven,  told  me  that  she  was 
following  the  same  solemn  train  of 
thought  with  myself,  and  treasuring  yet 
more  deeply  in  her  heart  the  sayings 
of  her  child. 

There  was  a  pause  of  some  seconds, 
and  the  sound  of  little  Annie's  footsteps 
had  just  died  away,  when  the  stillness 
was  again  broken  by  her  father's  voice. 
"  You  were  fortunate,  sir,"  he  said,  "  in 
leading  her  to  the  story  of  the  home- 
ward path ;  many  visitors  have  consid- 
ered it  the  most  beautiful  of  all  that 
the    old    man    told.      It    was  a  great 


THE  OLD  man's  HOME. 


91 


favourite  with  the  child.  I  have  often 
heard  her  repeating  detached  portions 
of  it  to  herself,  though  I  was  not  aware 
that  she  had  found  in  them  so  deep  a 
meaning. — It  is  strange,  very  strange," 
he  added,  thoughtfully,  "for  I  cannot 
even  now  tell  who  could  have  explained 
them  to  her.  I  also  have  often  looked 
back  with  wonder  on  the  answers  of  the 
child.  But  there  is  a  passage  from  Holy 
Scripture,  which  seems  to  be  their  best 
interpreter,  and  they  never  fail  to  recall 
it  to  my  mind  :  "I  thank  thee,  O  Father, 
Lord  of  heaven  and  earth,  that  thou 
hast  hid  these  things  from  the  wise  and 
prudent,  and  hast  revealed  them  unto 
babes."  * 

Poor  Annie !  My  conversation  with 
her  gave  a  ray  of  brightness  to  a  visit 
which  otherwise  had  in  it  enough  of 
gloom.  Nor  has  this  feeling  been  in 
any  way  changed  by  the  early  death  of 

*  Luke  X.  2L 


92 


THE   OLD  MAN  S  HOME. 


the  child.  There  is  still  peace  and  joy 
in  every  thought  connected  with  her, 
though  within  a  few  months  of  my  first 
visit  to  the  Asylum  little  Annie  was 
laid  in  her  quiet  grave.  She  laboured 
but  one  short  hour  in  the  vineyard,  and 
then  was  taken  to  the  same  home  with 
the  old  man  who  had  borne  so  long  and 
so  patiently  all  the  burthen  and  heat 
of  the  day.  Yet  my  own  heart  was  a 
witness  that  even  her  little  hour  of 
labour  had  not  been  without  its  fruit. 
A  romantic  storv  was  told  concernino: 
the  cause  of  her  death.  It  was  said 
that  she  had  never  recovered  the  loss 
of  her  friend,  but  gradually  pined  away 
in  consequence  of  it,  and  at  length  died 
of  a  broken  heart.  But  I  believed  not 
the  tale;  for  little  Annie  did  not  sorrow 
as  those  without  hope ;  and  though,  per- 
haps, the  cord  of  affection,  that  united 
her  so  closely  to  the  old  man,  may  have 
hastened  her  progress  to  the  home  to 


THE   OLD  man's  HOME. 


93 


which   he   was    gone,   I   do    not   thmk 
that  her  bereavement  was  the  cause  of 
her   death.      I   had   left   her   with   the 
impression  that  she  was  not   long  for 
this  world.     I  cannot  exactly  describe 
from   whence    this    feeling    arose.      It 
was  not  merely  because  her  cheek  was 
wan,  and  her  complexion  delicate,  and 
her   little   heart    seemed    to   beat    with 
too  eager  emotion  for  the  frail  prison 
in    which   it   was    confined;   but   there 
was  something  in  her  voice,  look,  and 
manner,  which  kept  reminding  me  of 
the  world  of  spirits;    as  though,  in  all 
her    youth    and    innocence,    she   were 
walking  on  its  very  borders,  and  her 
gentle  form  might  at  any  moment  fade 
into    the    mist,    and   vanish    from    my 

view. 

The  more  I  reflected  on  this,  the 
more  sure  I  became  that  little  Annie 
had  lived  her  time,  and  that  no  sud- 
den shock  had  broken  prematurely  the 


i 


94 


THE  OLD  MAN  S  HOME. 


thread    of   life.      I    thought    that    this 
assurance   might   afford    some   comfort 
to  her  parents  in  their  heavy  affliction ; 
for  Annie  was  an  only  daughter.     But 
when  I  called  upon  them,  the  mother 
alone  was  at  home  ;  and  I  soon  found 
that  she   needed   no  consolation  which 
I  could  afford  her.      She  had  her  own 
secret  store  of  treasure  in  every  word 
that  had  fallen  from  her  darling  child. 
I  shall  never  forget  the  look  with  which 
she  said  to  me,  "Ah,  sir,  I  understood 
very  little  of  her  words  while  she  was 
ahve;   but  the  moment  she  was  gone, 
it  seemed  as  though  a  light  was  shining 
upon  them  from  another  world,  and  1 
can  read  them  plainly  now."    And  then, 
after  a  pause,  she  added,  "Do  you  re- 
member, sir,  on  the  very  day  you  were 
with  us,  how  she  said,  'I  will  go  home 
directly  myself,  and  you   shall  follow 
me?"'      I    remembered   it   well;    and 
she  saw  from  my  countenance  that  I 


THE  OLD  man's  HOME. 


95 


guessed  her  meaning.  "Yes,"  she  con- 
tinued, as,  in  spite  of  every  effort  to 
suppress  it,  the  big  tear  rolled  down 
her  cheek,  "it  was  in  order  that  her 
father  and  myself  might  learn  to  follow 
her,  that  little  Annie  was  taken  Home. 
He  too,  sir,  has  become  since  then  an 
altered  man." 

A  silent  pressure  of  the  hand  was  my 
only  reply,  for  I  felt  that  the  afflicted 
mother  had  learnt  more  truly  than  I 
could  teach  her  the  lesson  which  was 
to  be  gathered  from  the  death  of  hei 
child. 


U  — 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Gently  along  the  vale  of  tears 
Lead  me  from  Tabor's  sunbright  steep; 

Let  me  not  grudge  a  few  short  years 
With  lliee  toward  Heaven  to  walk  and  weep. 

But,  <»h!  most  happy,  should  thy  call, 
Thy  welcome  call,  at  last  be  given— 
"Come,  where  thou  long  hast  stor'd  thy  all! 
Come,  see  thy  place  prupar'd  in  Heaven!" 

CHRISTIAN  YEAR. 

The  recollection  of  little  Annie  has 
made  me  wander  from  my  story,  and 
I  must  now  hasten  to  bring  it  to  a  con- 
clusion. I  left  the  Asylum,  pondering 
deeply  on  the  thuigs  I  had  heard  and 
seen.  My  heart  was  sad  within  me; 
for  I  could  not  help  giving  way  to  a 
feeling  of  compassionate  sorrow  as  I 
thought  of  the  old  man's  solitary  lot* 


THE  OLD  MAN  S  HOME. 


97 


His  past  history  seemed,  indeed,  to 
be    lost   in    almost    hopeless    oblivion. 
But  I  knew  that  he   must  have  been 
crushed    and    broken    down    by    some 
terrible  calamity  in  early  youth;   that 
he  had  been  awakened  from  the   stu- 
por  which    it    produced   to   the    stern 
reality  of  bonds  and  chains,  and  then 
been  doomed  to  a  dull,  unvaried  cap- 
tivity, not  for  days,  weeks,  or  months, 
but   for   a   long    period   of  more   than 
fifty  years.     Thus   reason   kept   draw- 
ing a  melancholy  picture  of  one  without 
home,    without   friends,    dependent    on 
charity    for    his    daily    bread,    whose 
whole    existence    was    a   dreary    void, 
with    no    employment    to    beguile    his 
thoughts,   no    hope    to    cheer    him   on 
his   way.      It   needed   only  the    recol- 
lection   of   that    pecuHar    solitude    of 
mind,    which    is    almost     the     certain 
offspring   of  insanity,   to   complete   its 
gloom. 


98 


THE   OLD  MAN  S  HOME. 


And  yet,  after  all,  it  was  my  own 
infirmity   which    made    me    sad ;    for, 
when  I  had    strength   to    gaze  on  the 
same    picture    whh    the    eye   of   faith, 
bright  and   beautiful  were   the  images 
that  I  saw.     I  then  perceived  that  he 
was   not  without   home,  for   his   home 
was  in  the  land  of  spirits  beyond  the 
grave;  he  was  not  without  friends,  for 
his  wife  and  children  were  waiting  for 
him   there ;    while   he    remained   upon 
earth,  he   was   not   dependent,   for   he 
felt  his  daily  wants  to  be  supplied  by 
a  Father's  care;  he  never,  for  a  single 
instant,  was  without  occupation,  for  he 
had    a  long  warfare   to   accomplish,  a 
distant  journey   to   perform;    and    still 
less  was  he  uncheered  by  the  blessing 
of  hope,  for   he   was    able    to   rest   in 
humble  trust  on  his  Saviour's  promise, 
and  go  on,   day  after  day,  laying  up 
treasures    for    himself,    which    neither 
moth  nor  rust  could  corrupt,  nor  thieves 


THE   OLD  man's  HOME. 


99 


break  through  and  steal.  Out  of  the 
loneliness  caused  by  his  affliction  he 
had  created  a  new  world  for  himself, 
or  rather,  he  had  been  drawn  by  it  to 
live  in  that  world  which,  though  unseen, 
God  has  really  created  for  us  all.  And 
surely  to  him  life  could  never  have 
been  dull  and  unvaried,  while  he  was 
able  to  trace  the  types  and  emblems 
of  spiritual  things  alike  in  the  passing 
gleams  of  sunshine,  and  in  the  dark 
shadows  that  rested  upon  his  path ! 

Mingled  with  these  conflicting  emo- 
tions, the  question  from  time  to  time 
arose  in  my  mind,  *  And  was  poor  Robin 
really  mad?'  And  again  it  was  only 
my  own  infirmity  which  caused  me  to 
shrink  from  the  reply.  It  is  hard  in- 
deed to  define  madness;  and  the  state 
of  his  intellect  probably  varied  from 
time  to  time.  Thus  it  may  have  been 
almost  without  a  cloud  when  little 
Annie  was  his  companion.      So,  also, 


L 


100 


THE  OLD  MAN  S  HOME. 


during  my  own  brief  interview  with 
him,  the  stillness  of  the  evening,  and 
the  unison  of  his  own  thoughts  with  the 
surrounding  scene,  may  have  breathed 
a  soothing  influence  upon  his  mind. 
And  yet  when  I  reflected  calmly  on 
that  very  interview,  I  felt  that  they 
were  right  in  not  suffering  the  old 
man  to  travel  alone  along  the  journey 
of  life. 

His  was  the  second  childhood ;  sim- 
ple, pure,  and  holy  as  the  first,  and 
yet,  in  his  case,  no  less  than  the  first, 
requiring  a  protector's  care.  He  spoke 
and  thought  as  a  child,  and  children 
could  understand  him ;  but  the  calm 
mirror  of  his  mind  quickly  grew  trou- 
bled in  his  intercourse  with  men,  and 
he  then  lost  the  power  of  explaining 
his  thoughts,  or  perhaps  of  himself 
distinojuishins:  between  the  shadow  and 
the  substance,  the  things  of  sight  and 
the   things   of  faith.     Reason   had   re- 


THE  OLD  man's  HOME. 


101 


signed  her  sway  during  the  mental 
conflict  which  had  been  caused  by  his 
calamities ;  and  though  peace  and 
quietness  had  been  restored,  she  never 
had  attained  sufficient  vio^our  to  re- 
sume  it  again.  Nay  more;  it  may  be 
that  her  lamp  was  the  more  dim  and 
uncertain,  on  account  of  the  brighter 
and  clearer  light  which  from  that  time 
burned  unceasingly  in  his  soul.  It  is 
possible  that  he  was  slow  in  observ- 
ing the  different  shades  of  colour  that 
passed  across  earthly  objects,  because 
to  his  eye  one  unfading  colour  was 
resting  upon  them  all ;  and  that  his 
mere  intellectual  faculties  remained 
weak  and  palsied,  because  out  of 
this  very  weakness  he  had  been  made 
strong,  and  he  was  at  all  times  con- 
scious of  the  presence  of  a  surer  sup- 
port and  a  safer  guide. 

And  what  matters  it,  if  it  were  so? 
Why  may  we  not  revere  poor  Robin, 


» 


f 


t  'f 


[ 


102 


THE   OLD  man's  HOME. 


and  love  him,  and  learn  from  him,  and 
yet  not  shrink  from  acknowledging  that 
his  reason  had   gone  astray?      Surely 
there  is  no  one  who  would  not  gladly 
leave  the  hard,  dull  road  of  life,  if  only 
they  could  wander  with  him  along  the 
same  bright  and  happy  paths !     There 
is    no    one    who   would    not    give    the 
choicest   gifts   of  reason  twice  told,  if 
only  they  could  purchase  for  them  the 
child-like    faith   of  that   simple-hearted 


man 


I 


I  was  half  sorry  when  my  arrival  at 

the  village  of  B made  me  change 

these  silent  meditations  for  the  attempt 
to  investigate  the  old  man's  connexions 
and  historv.  It  was  not,  however,  mere 
curiosity  that  prompted  me  to  do  so. 
I  was  anxious,  if  it  were  possible,  to 
save  him  from  a  pauper's  grave.  For 
a  long  time  my  inquiries  were  in  vain. 
Some  few,  indeed,  had  heard  of  poor 
Robin,  for   his   fame,  as  I  have   said. 


THE   OLD  MAN^S  HOME. 


103 


had   spread   beyond   the   walls   of  the 
Asylum;    but   the    name   of  Wakeling 
was   unknown  to  them ;    and  they  did 
not  believe  he  had  ever  been  connected 
with  the  parish  of  B .     They  refer- 
red me,  however,  to  the  cottage  of  the 
oldest  inhabitant   of  the  village.      She 
was  a  widow,  of  very  great  age,  having 
lived   to    see    four    generations    around 
her.     A  few  years  since,  they  said,  she 
was  able  to  speak  distinctly  of  events 
that  had   happened   more    than  half  a 
century  ago,  but  latterly  her   memory 
had  become  impaired. 

When  I  mentioned  to  her  the  name  of 
Wakeling,  the  word  at  once  awakened 
some  recollection  of  the  past.  She 
twice  repeated  it,  and  added,  almost 
mechanically,  "  Good  and  excellent 
people,  sir,  and  very  kind  to  the  poor." 
But  when  I  questioned  her  as  to  their 
occupation  and  history,  and  asked  what 
had   become   of  them,    she   shook   her 


,1 

li 


I'H 


!! 


■  i 


104 


THE  OLD  MAN  S  HOME. 


head,  as  though  the  thread  of  memory 
had  been  broken  off,  and  she  was  un- 
able to  unite  it  again. 

As  a  last  hope,  I  referred  directly 
to  the  spring  of  1783,  and  inquired 
whether  it  had  been  marked  by  any 
particular  occurrence.  "Ah,  sir,'*  she 
replied,  "much  of  the  past  is  now  like 
a  dream  to  me,  but  that  is  a  period 
which  I  never  can  forget."  The  tone 
of  sadness  in  which  these  words  were 
uttered,  proved  some  deep  sorrow  to 
be  connected  with  the  remembrance  of 
it;  and  on  further  questioning,  I  learnt 
that  it  was  a  season  in  which  an  infec- 
tious fever  had  raged  in  the  village,  and 
that  whole  families  had  been  carried  off 
by  its  ravages  :  she  herself  had  then 
been  left  an  orphan.  But  though  her 
recollection  of  the  illness  itself  seemed 
as  vivid  as  though  it  had  occurred  but 
yesterday,  of  the  Wakelings  she  could 
say  nothing  with  distinctness.     It  may 


THE   OLD  MAN  S  HOME. 


105 


be  that  her  mind  was  too  absorbed  with 
the  remembrance  of  her  own  grief  to 
allow  her  to  recur  to  that  of  others ; 
or  it  may  be  that,  even  at  the  time,  in 
the  general  affliction  the  loss  of  an 
individual,  however  grievous,  had  been 
scarcely  noticed,  and  soon  forgotten.  At 
length  she  seemed  to  grow  weary  of  my 
importunity,  and  said,  "  I  cannot  tell 
who  may  have  lived,  and  who  may  have 
died :  you  must  go,  sir,  to  the  church- 
yard, and  there  you  will  find  the  only 
certain  history  of  that  fatal  spring." 

A  new  thought  was  suggested  by 
these  words,  and  I  repaired  thither  in 
the  hope  that  I  might  find  that  informa- 
tion which  I  had  sought  in  vain  from 
the  living,  among  the  silent  records  of 
the  dead. 

The  evening  was  now  drawing  on, 
and  it  was  in  truth  the  very  hour  at 
which  but  yesterday  I  had  parted  from 
the  old  man.     I  was  alone ;   and  as  1 


fi 


106 


THE   OLD  MAN  S  HOME. 


trod,  with  a  cautious  reverence  upon  the 
green  sod,  there  was  no  sound  to  break 
the  tranquillity  of  the  scene,  save  the 
ripple  of  the  waters  at  the  edge  of  the 
cliff  on  which  the  churchyard  stood. 
Their  restless  motion  only  made  me 
feel  the  more  deeply  the  stillness  of  the 
hallowed  ground  itself;  and  I  thought, 
that  if  the  old  man  had  been  with  me, 
he  might  have  found  in  it  an  apt  emblem 
of  the  quiet  resting-place  of  the  dead, 
lying  on  the  very  borders  of  the  sea 
of  life,  and  yet  untroubled  by  its  mur- 
muring and  sheltered  from  its  storms. 
I  was  not  long  in  discovering  the 
object  which  I  sought.  The  rays  of  the 
setting  sun  at  once  directed  me  to  a 
stone  at  the  eastern  extremity  of  the 
churchyard.  It  was  distinguished  from 
those  around  by  a  simple  cross ;  but  in 
spite  of  the  soft  light  that  was  now  shed 
upon  it,  it  was  with  difficulty  that  I  de- 
ciphered the  i»iscription  which  it  bore. 


THE  OLD  man's  HOME. 


107 


For  not  only  was  the  tomb  itself  thickly 
covered  with  moss  and  weeds,  but  my 
own  eye  grew  dim  with  tears,  as  one  by 
one  the  few  sad  words  revealed  to  me 
the  secret  of  the  old  man's  history. 
His  restlessness  during  the  spring,  the 
object  of  his  last  solitary  journey,  and 
parts  of  his  conversation  with  myself, 
which  before  had  seemed  obscure,  were 
now  fully  explained.  The  inscription 
was  as  follows  : — 

SACRED 

TO  THE  MEMORY  OF 

SUSAN,  WIFE  OF  ROBERT  WAKELINO, 

WHO  DIED 

APRIL  18TH,   1783,  AGED  28  YEARS. 

ALSO  OF  THEIR  CHILDREN, 

ALICE,  AGED  6  YEARS,  HENRY,  AGED  5  YEARS, 

AND  EDWARD,  AN  INFANT, 

WHO  SURVIVED  HER  ONLY  A  FEW  DAYS. 

♦'I  SHALL   GO  TC  THEM 
BUT  THEY  SHALL  NOT  RETURN  TO  ME." 

2  Sam.  xil  23b 

There   was   room   beneath   the   text 
from    Holy    Scripture    for    one    name 


*'! 


108 


THE   OLD  MAN  S  HOME. 


more,  and  it  was  there  that  I  added  the 
words  : 

ALSO  OF  ROBERT  WAKELING, 

WHO   DIED 

APRIL   18TH,  1843,  AGED   93  YEARS. 

They  remain  as  a  simple  record  that 
the  old  man  was  indeed  united  at  last, 
in  body  as  well  as  spirit,  to  those  whom 
he  had  so  dearly  loved,  and  mourned  so 
long. 


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